


L'Angelo della Citta

by whichclothes



Series: Veniceverse [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-08
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 91,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for the excellent beta work, and to the generous [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)  for the lovely icons and banners! Feedback is always cherished.

_**L'Angelo della Citta (Prologue)**_  
 **Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : Prologue **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)   for the lovely icons and banners! Feedback is always cherished.

  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h6bgp/)  
---  
  
 

  
**  
L'Angelo della Città   
**   


  
  


  
**Prologue**   


  
  


  
_Venice, Italy, 1952_   


“Look, my prince. See how it sparkles!” Drusilla had woven sprigs of wisteria into her hair, and when she leaned far over the metal railing, some of the blossoms tumbled into the water and were borne away by the sluggish current.

Spiked sighed and, pressing back against a rough wall, lit a cigarette and took a long draw. “’T’s lovely,” he said as he exhaled.

She continued to stare down at the water, her torso bent so far forward that he wondered if she might fall in. “The sea has eaten the stars, Spike. Naughty sea. But now we shall swallow the sea and it will taste ever so good.”

“It’ll taste like salt and sewage,” Spike told her with a sigh. He puffed at his cigarette while she stared into the water as if she could see her reflection there. When it looked as if she truly intended to tip herself all the way into the canal, he pried himself off the wall and gently took her elbow. “Come on, love. I’ll find us a real meal, yeah?”

She looked as if she might argue, but then stood up straight and nodded at him, grinning wickedly. “Something fresh?”

“The kiddies are all in bed by now, but we can find someone young. A pretty girl who smells like roses, her hair tucked into a scarf, perhaps.”

“I want a boy,” Drusilla responded with a small pout. “Tall and strong.”

“Then a boy it shall be for my dark princess.”

She wrapped her arm around his and they descended the little bridge. Her heels clicked loudly on the pavement, echoing against the walls that were close on both sides. He steered them towards the Rialto, but it was slow going as she stopped to natter at a lion’s head door knocker, cooed happily at Casanova’s old house, and glared for long minutes at one of the statues perched atop Santa Maria dei Miracoli. By the time they reached the Grand Canal, Spike’s stomach was growling.

“Gondola, gondola, gondola,” sang a man in a black-and–white-striped shirt. But he was short with a receding chin and crossed eyes, and Drusilla tugged Spike right on past, her nose pointed decisively upwards.

A few minutes later, she eyed a waiter at one of the cafes, and Spike was ready to exhale in relief when she suddenly pulled him away. “He was tall and strong, pet,” Spike protested.

“He smells of garlic. Nasty.”

“Occupational hazard,” Spike responded, and allowed himself to be led.

But just a moment later, Drusilla stopped so abruptly that Spike nearly tripped. He saw what had caught her attention: another gondolier, but this one young and handsome, with a straw hat perched jauntily on his dark hair. The gondolier saw that he’d been spotted and he rushed over, smiling broadly. “Gondola!” he announced grandly, as if he were letting them in on the discovery of the century.

Drusilla batted her eyes at him. “I should fancy a ride.”

The gondolier’s grin widened. “I give you good price. Discount for-a the pretty lady.”

Drusilla clapped her hands and giggled.

Spike followed the two of them to the water, and he and the gondolier helped Dru step her way down into the tippy boat. But when Spike began to step down as well, Dru pushed backwards at his leg. Hard. He nearly toppled onto the pavement. “You shall stay here,” she announced.

“But Dru—”

“You shall stay here. I want to ride alone with my handsome boatman."

             The gondolier gave a lecherous look and Spike had to stop himself from snarling at the pillock. He knew better than to argue with Dru, so he moved away from the water. “Fine,” he grumbled. “But stay out of trouble.”

She laughed at him and waved gaily as the gondolier paddled them away.

For a half hour or so, Spike stomped about near the Grand Canal. There were plenty of tourists to choose from, but they drew away from him when they saw the look on his face. Besides, he didn’t fancy creating a big commotion. He and Dru had only just arrived in the city and he knew she wanted to stay a while, so a low profile was best for the time being. He decided to find a less obvious target. A beggar perhaps, or--because it amused Spike to prey on predators--a pickpocket. 

But once he turned away from the Rialto, the streets were nearly deserted. He found a few clots of lost tourists; three pairs of lovers snogging in darkened squares; and a squat old crone dragging a wheeled cart, who scowled at him as he passed and made the sign to ward off the evil eye. He flashed a bit of fang at her but otherwise let her be.

By the time he found himself in the old Jewish ghetto his stomach was complaining constantly. He’d nearly decided to head to Piazza San Marco and pick off a tourist or two after all when he caught an intriguing scent. He couldn’t place it, but it was sweet and heady, a bit like baking bread but not so yeasty. It smelled wonderful. He followed his nose, twisting in and out of narrow alleys and through cobbled squares, until he found himself in a long passageway that led between two buildings, with two more storeys piled crookedly atop. The passageway smelled of cat piss, but the compellingly sweet odor was strong there as well, and Spike prowled into the darkness.

Halfway down the tunnel, there was a depression between the pavement and the wall. The depression was stuffed with bits of trash—newspapers and bottles and the like—and buried amongst the rubbish was a man. At least, Spike reckoned it was a man, although the creature was huddled into a tight fetal ball and was so filthy that it was difficult for Spike to make out many details. He could tell it was scrawny, though, and it had long matted hair. The few bits of its body that were visible through the wrinkled-up papers were bare skin, all red and scraped-looking or black with dirt.

Spike couldn’t understand how the man managed to smell so lovely despite the squalor, but this close to him, Spike’s mouth was watering. Besides, Spike was too hungry to concern himself with speculation. He knelt beside the small ditch, ignoring the inevitable stains on the knees of his trousers. “Hello, mate,” he said.

The man whimpered and curled up more tightly.

“I can’t wrap my tongue around your bastardized Latin and I don’t reckon you understand the Queen’s English. But if you do, why not save us both some time and I’ll make it easy on you. It’ll only hurt a bit.”

Spike hadn’t really expected a response from his dinner, but the man went very still for a moment and then straightened out, turning his face toward Spike and lifting one arm free of the rubbish.

“Bloody hell,” Spike swore. “What happened to you? The war?” Because the man’s forearm and hand were missing and his eyes were gaping, empty holes.

The man shook his head very slowly and opened his mouth. Spike hissed when he saw that the tongue was missing as well. With a morbid sort of curiosity—he was, after all, a vampire—Spike swept the remaining rubbish away, revealing the man completely. The man didn’t wear a scrap of clothing, but that was hardly his most serious problem, because his other arm ended at the wrist and both feet were missing. Worst of all: he had no penis. Oh, he was definitely male—his bollocks were intact, pink and hairless—but where his cock should have been there was only a shallow indentation, as if someone had broken the thing clean away.

For the first time in ages, Spike was too shocked to do anything but stare. Meanwhile, the man lay still, allowing Spike’s horrified scrutiny.

“How?” Spike finally managed to ask.

But of course the man couldn’t answer. Instead, he let out a long, slow sigh.

Spike realized that underneath the filth the man was handsome. Beautiful, even. The poet in Spike had never quite perished, and now shook his head at the pathos of it all, at the heartbreak of loveliness so broken and corrupted, at the irony of a glorious creature meeting his end in a gutter and at the teeth of a demon. “There’s an irony to it,” he said out loud. “A sort of symmetry. Death turned that worthless pansy William Pratt into something strong and . . . and vital. But it’ll turn you into nothing but a forgotten shell. Pity, really. But I expect death’s a mercy for you now, and there’s an irony as well.”

The man furrowed his brow as Spike spoke, and when Spike put a hand on his shoulder, the man sniffed at the air like a dog might, or a demon. Then his expression cleared and he tilted his head to the side, exposing his dirt-streaked neck in a clear invitation.

“That’s right,” Spike said, surprising himself with the crooning tone in his voice. He couldn’t fathom why, but something about this wretched wreck of a man stirred his sympathy the same way Drusilla did when she was having one of her bad fits. When Dru cried, Spike held and comforted her, and for no good reason at all, Spike had the urge to do the same for this human. Perhaps it was because the man was rejected and alone. Spike knew what that was like all too well.

“Right then,” he said roughly. “I won’t turn you. You’d be no good at all as a vampire—the bits don’t grow back, do they? But I promised I’d make it easy and I will. The bite will only hurt a bit and then there’s sweet oblivion. Perhaps even your god, waiting to make you whole again.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

The man wasn’t afraid. His heartbeat was slow and even and his breaths very regular. His eyelids shut over the empty sockets and his soiled brow was unlined. But he didn’t try to sit up—maybe he was unable—and Spike slid an arm under his shoulders. They were broad and his bones were sturdy; Spike reckoned that once he’d been a muscular bloke. The man didn’t struggle as Spike lifted his upper torso off the ground.

“Think of it this way, mate,” Spike whispered, although he didn’t know why. “Not only will your own troubles be over, but you’ll have saved someone else’s life tonight. I eat you and someone else gets to live another day, yeah? Makes you a hero of sorts.”

The man responded with a very slight nod.

Spike bent his head and snuffled at the man’s neck. Yes, he smelled of rubbish and damp, of rotting paper and mud. But his personal scent was much stronger than those disagreeable odors, and it was brilliant. Sweet of course, and salty. As Spike inhaled he had a sudden and vivid memory of a time when he was six or seven years old, and he’d snuck into the kitchen while cook was distracted. He had torn a healthy chunk from a loaf of bread that was cooling on the table, and he’d slathered it with butter and then sprinkled sugar thickly atop that. Then he’d run out into the garden, laughing gleefully. He had known that eventually he would be caught and most likely caned for his crime, but at that moment he hadn’t cared a whit. He had felt so free and delighted he nearly imagined he could fly.

Almost a century later, kneeling beside a gutter in Venice and preparing to commit murder, Spike snorted at himself. The man in his grip relaxed completely and smiled up at him. And Spike shifted his face and bit.

For a brief moment, the man’s blood tasted as glorious as Spike had hoped, hot and thick and thrumming with life.

And then Spike shrieked and dropped his prey.

His mouth was on fire, his throat burning as if someone had stuck a torch inside him. As if he’d swallowed holy water. Half screaming, half gasping for breath, Spike staggered away, lurching out of the passageway and into the little square beyond. He had to lean on the buildings for support and he expected to disintegrate into a pile of ashes any second—hoped to disintegrate, really, because the agony was too great to bear. But somehow he managed to make his way to the other side of the square and down a short street, and there was a canal, green and viscous under the stars.

Spike toppled into the water.

He spent a long time submerged, swallowing gallons of the ghastly liquid, until the flames inside him died down to mere glowing coals.

Somehow he made it back to their stolen flat before sunrise. But Dru didn’t return that night or the next, and Spike was too weak to hunt for the sustenance that would mend him, so for two days he simply lay on bloodied bedclothes and waited.

Eventually Drusilla came back to the flat, looking rumpled and sated and almost flushed. She clucked over Spike’s condition and let him feed from her wrist a few moments—a thing she permitted only rarely—before leaving again and then returning with a plump Austrian tourist in tow. The man was so deeply in her thrall that he barely noticed when Spike tore savagely into his neck.

It took several more nights and several more greedy feedings before Spike mended completely. He considered going to look for the broken man, or whatever he was—because Spike was now certain the creature in the gutter had not been human—but in the end, Spike found himself oddly reluctant to seek the creature out. Instead, he helped Dru decimate a small order of nuns, and then the two of them boarded a ferry bound for Pula. Spike reckoned the Roman amphitheatre there would amuse his princess for a time.

[Chapter One](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/284058.html)   


  



	2. Chapter 2

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 1 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h7frc/)  
---  
  
  
  


**Chapter One**

_Lucerne, California, 2010_

_Thud!_

Xander winced as the Pahlatz demon slammed its fingers for the third time in a row. “No, see, it’s like this,” Xander said, taking the hammer away and demonstrating how someone could hit a nail without maiming himself.

The demon watched intently, making the little buzzing noises that meant it was concentrating. But when Xander gave it back the tool and it swung again at the nail, it once again banged the metal into its hand.

“Tell you what,” Xander said, repossessing his hammer, “maybe hammering just isn’t your forte. Let’s call it a day, and tomorrow we’ll try something else instead. Maybe you’ll be a whiz with a drill.”

The Pahlatz nodded and then trundled away, its greenish fur rippling in the breeze. Xander sighed and tucked the hammer into his toolbox. It wasn’t the demon’s fault—the poor little guy was really trying. Or maybe girl. Or . . . something. Pahlatzi had some kind of complicated system involving six rotating genders, all of which was far too much for Xander to understand. Unfortunately, the little demons were also almost literally all thumbs: their hands boasting a half dozen stubby and barely articulated digits, which made anything involving manual dexterity a real challenge. But they had to learn because Xander didn’t intend to hang around the Sanctuary forever, and when he left, the Pahlatzi and the other demons were going to have to do their own DIY.

Xander latched and lifted his toolbox. He waved at a little group of Zali’petu that were having limited success in assembling a prefab garden shed, and he made his way down the pine needled pathway to the house. Leaving the toolbox on the front porch, he entered the kitchen. Willow was there, stirring something herby and stinky on the stove. “I hope that’s not dinner,” he said as he pulled a can of beer from the fridge.

Willow rolled her eyes at him. “You can do your own cooking, mister. This is that healing salve I’ve been working on.”

“Better work harder.” He popped open the can and collapsed into a spindly wooden chair. “My Pahlatzi pals need it.”

“Carpentry lessons not going so well?”

“Well, we haven’t lost any limbs lately, so I guess things are looking up.” He swallowed about half the can and then belched loudly. “Sorry. Working man’s lament.”

Willow stuck her tongue out at him. “Neanderthal.”

“Will, I’m not too sure about this whole enterprise.”

Now she frowned at him. “But just a couple months ago you were all, Yay, Sanctuary!”

“That was before I was smacked with reality. Demons just aren’t good at building and stuff. They’re great at maiming and torturing and—”

“Not _these_ demons, Xan. You know that.”

“Yeah, yeah, only friendly monsters need apply. But even the cutesy fluffy ones aren’t so great with the home improvement.”

Willow put her hands on her hips and glared. “So what then? You think we should just kill ’em all, just because they’re a little different? That’s prejudice, Xander. It’s genocide!”

Xander groaned quietly and sank his head into his hands. He’d been through this already several times, caught in the middle as Willow and Dawn rallied for the rights of the humanity-challenged and Buffy and Giles argued a more hawkish perspective. The other Slayers had been split pretty evenly down the line and Xander himself had tried as hard as he could to remain Switzerland. When the compromise of a Sanctuary had been suggested—and hadn’t Xander wanted to kiss the chubby Slayer from Lisbon who’d suggested it!—he’d thought he’d finally get some peace. He’d even been willing to drag along and help set the place up, even though he didn’t particularly want to return to the USA and even though he feared he’d end up getting indecent propositions from half of the scaly, furry, slimy, or feathered creatures in the place. Not that a little indecent proposing wouldn’t be welcomed, but he hoped the proposer was at least mostly humanoid.

“Are you listening to me?” Willow demanded.

Xander looked up at her. “Sure, Will. I get it. I even mostly agree. I’m just . . . I’m not sure I’m doing all that much good here, that’s all. I think you’ll be better off if you just hire a couple of handymen and let the demons do their demony thing in peace.” Then he was struck by inspiration. “Wouldn’t that be a better way to honor their traditions?”

Willow frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe we are being cultural imperialists . . .” She furrowed her brow and tapped at her chin with one finger.

“Um, Will? Something’s burning.”

As Willow squeaked and rushed to salvage her salve, Xander drained the last of his Budweiser and headed upstairs for a shower.

***

_London, England, 2010_

“Hello, Xander.” Giles barely glanced up from his book as Xander entered the library. 

“Hey.” Xander plopped down into his favorite seat, coughing when a little cloud of dust billowed up. Apparently nobody else had occupied his comfy chair while he was in the States.

Giles scribbled something onto a scrap of paper, chewed on his pen for a moment, and then scribbled some more. “The, erm, Sanctuary is coming along well?”

“Yeah. Mostly. Construction delays, and it turns out that the big blobby purplish demons like to snack on the small crunchy ones with the eight eyes.”

“I expect that tends to put a damper on things.”

“Makes the seating arrangements at shindigs really complicated.” Xander swung sideways, his legs hanging over one arm of the chair and his head tilted back to peer at the ceiling—which needed plastering. “How’s tricks?”

“The usual.”

“End of the world?”

“Naturally.”

Xander sat silently for a time, listening to the rustle as Giles turned pages and the little _scratch-scratch_ when he wrote. Part of the soundtrack of home, along with _thunks_ as superpowered females kicked and punched training bags, and multilingual shouts as the same superpowered females argued over nail polish or boys or television programs. Sometimes Giles hummed to himself as he worked, and Xander had realized some time ago that as fraught with imminent disaster as their lives might be, the man was happy with his life. Of course, it probably helped that he’d hooked up a couple years ago with the woman who ran the magic shop just a few blocks from HQ.

Xander was a little jet-lagged and may have even dozed off a bit, so he startled when a book was slammed shut. “This will do nicely,” Giles said, indicating his notes. “It turns out that these particular demons have a weakness for certain copper alloys, and if you—”

“Giles? Skip the explanations. Just point me in the right direction and tell me where to stab.”

“Perhaps you’d be better off missing the evening’s festivities. You’re still tired from your journey.”

Xander shrugged and disentangled himself from the chair. “I’ll be fine,” he said as he stretched his limbs. “I’ll take a nap, guzzle some caffeine. By tonight I’ll be in perfect form to get almost killed again, this time by copper-aversive bad guys. Hey! Can we just pelt ’em with pennies?”

Giles looked skeptical. “We can spare you for one fight. Why not sit this one out?”

“Nope. Did too much sitting on the airplane as it is.”

Giles shook his head, but in a way that said he was conceding. Xander gave him a little wave and left the library, heading for his room on the third floor. He couldn’t say why he was so insistent on joining the battle—really, his presence was hardly essential. Maybe he just liked to feel useful. Besides, it had been a few months since anything had tried to slaughter him. He was feeling a little out of practice.

***

“You don’t have to do this,” Buffy said.

Xander shook his head. “I’ve heard this song before. I know I don’t _have_ to. But you know, neither do you. Not like you’re the only Chosen One in the sea anymore.”

“Yeah, but I’m—” she began, and then abruptly stopped. Embarrassed, she started walking more quickly so he had to hurry to catch up.

“I know.  You’re a Slayer and I’m just expendable, weak, one-eyed Xander.” He’d intended a light tone but couldn’t quite keep out the bitterness.

Buffy slowed down a little and hooked her elbow through his. “That’s not what I meant. It’s only . . . you’ve been really busy, with the jet-setting and Sanctuary-building and all, and maybe you should take a little break. A vacation.”

“Two fabulous weeks in sunny Hawaii?”

She turned her head to smile at him. “Probably more than the Council’s gonna go for. How about two fabulous days in occasionally sunny . . . um . . . Cornwall?”

“Do they have hula girls there?”

She poked him in the side. “I’m being serious.”

“Me too.” In fact, he was so serious he turned to look at her and almost tripped over a curb. She had to catch him from falling, and he pretended the affront to his dignity hadn’t happened. “Buff, look. I’m know I’m not exactly the organization’s star fighter. Or the star researcher, or star spell-caster. Hell, I’m not even the star documentary filmmaker—Andrew’s got that one in the bag. But this is my job and I take it seriously. I’m sure as hell not gonna hang around HQ, wringing my hands and waiting for the real workers to come home safely.”

She gave him a half-squinty look. “Is this a testosterone thing?”

“Probably,” he replied with a sigh.

And then there was a fuss ahead of them as the Slayers in the front of the group caught sight of their quarry. Buffy let go of his arm and broke into a run; he followed, inevitably lagging behind. By the time he caught up, the melee was going full-tilt: girls swinging the special copper-coated blades Giles had rigged, demons spitting and clawing, and some poor guy who’d just been out walking his golden retriever standing nearby and screaming. The dog was barking. 

Xander didn’t have a special demon-killing knife. Giles couldn’t make enough of them to go around, so the enhanced weapons had been given to those who were best at handling them. Needless to say, Xander was not included in that company. He had a thoroughly unmagical sword, one with a short, broad blade that he could stuff in a scabbard hidden under his jacket—the local authorities tended to frown at unsheathed swords—and now he drew it. He didn’t lop off his own ear in the process, which was a plus. His sword wouldn’t actually destroy the demons, but he’d been given to understand that he could at least inflict some damage. Slow the monsters down so the Slayers could get a good shot at them.

Xander used to watch war movies as a kid. The kind with gladiators or kilt-wearing Scotsmen or Confederate versus Union soldiers. The soundtrack was generally quieter than whatever was going on between his parents. But as the on-screen combatants went at each other with knives or clubs or swords or bayonets or whatever, he had always wondered how you told your allies from your enemies in such close quarters. As he grew older and started fighting, he learned that his concerns were well placed: telling the good guys from the bad really wasn’t always easy, not even when the good guys were sort of curvy with their hair tucked into braids and ponytails, and the bad guys looked like the love children of a chameleon and a bottle of ketchup. Limited peripheral vision on the left side didn’t exactly help reduce the chances of friendly fire either.

So Xander went in swinging, but carefully. At first he didn’t hit anything at all, but then his blade made contact with a lizardy tail, lopping off the end of it. That enraged the demon so that it turned away from the Slayer it had been menacing and instead attacked Xander, cutting a nasty gash across his chest with its claws. But the wound wasn’t fatal, and while the creature’s attentions were turned the Slayer thrust her copper knife into its spiny back. The demon howled and dissolved into a puddle of shiny, sticky goo.

“One point for Harris!” Xander yelled. The slice on his chest was bloody but it didn’t hurt yet.

After that, he stabbed at a couple of other demons, not managing to do much more than poke his blade into their tough hides and annoy them. Something stepped on his foot, possibly breaking a toe, and he shuddered when he heard a Slayer’s blood-curdling scream end abruptly, the way screams tended to when the screamer was decapitated. “Fuck!” he said, stabbing an especially tall demon in the knee. They hadn’t lost a member of the group for months, not since a few weeks before he left for the Sanctuary.

But you couldn’t stop to grieve in the middle of a battle. That was another handy hint he’d picked up over the years. Whoever fell, you had to keep on keeping on, and hope that you’d survive the day to become a mourner instead of one of the mourned. So Xander took a chunk out of a demon’s leg, cut an opening in a demon’s belly, and lopped off something that may or may not have been a reproductive organ. And while he did, he ducked and feinted, picking up a few burning claw marks and a host of bruises.

Just as he was growing weary, the sword feeling impossibly heavy in his arms, he noticed that the fight was slowing. There were way fewer demons and a lot more puddles of dead enemy on the ground. 

And then he stepped in one of those puddles just as someone knocked into the shoulder on his blind side, and he lost his balance. He fell face-down, narrowly missing self-impalement, and found he couldn’t scramble up again. So he rolled, trying to get out of the way. But he was a little too slow and  it was hard to tell which direction he should aim for. A colossal demon foot was aimed at his belly. Xander _oofed_ as the wind was knocked out of him and he curled into a ball around his midsection. Which meant he barely saw the foot when it swung for him again, this time aimed straight at his head.

[Chapter Two](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/284612.html)   


 

  



	3. Chapter 3

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 2 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h8zsc/)  
---  
  
  
  


**Chapter Two**

_Los Angeles, California, 2010_

Spike wasn’t sure which insulted him more: the fact that the wanker was trying to cheat him, or the fact that he was doing such a piss-poor job of it. But Spike didn’t say anything as the little demon palmed a card and replaced it with another he’d had tucked up his too-long sleeve.

“I’ll raise you two hundred,” squeaked the demon, who called himself Ned.

Spike pretended to consider. “Two, huh? All right. I’ll call.” He tossed some bills onto the worn wooden table.

Ned nodded happily and set down his cards. “Three queens!” he chortled.

“Nice hand,” Spike said agreeably. “Not as nice as a full house, mind you.” And he set his own cards onto the table.

Sormach demons could pass for human, aside from the flexible antennae that grew atop their heads. Ned had taken the rather extreme step of cutting his antennae short, so that the stubs were hidden by his ridiculously curly hair. The problem was that Sormach feelers glowed when the demons experienced strong emotions, and now Ned’s hair couldn’t hide the greenish lights atop his skull.

“Huh,” Ned said in a slightly choked voice.

“Too bad, that. When you were doing so well and all. Well, luck must have turned my way.” Spike started to scoop up the pile of bills.

“Wait! Um . . . how ’bout we play one more hand. Double or nothing.”

Spike stroked his chin as if he were deep in thought. “Double or nothing, huh? Dunno. That’s quite a pile of dosh. Perhaps I ought to quit while I’m ahead.”

“Yeah, but you said it yourself—your luck’s changed. Besides, think what you could do with all that money. You could begin with some sharp new clothes . . .”

“Oi!” Spike looked down at his usual duster-tee-jeans-Docs, then across at Ned, who was nattily attired in an Italian suit. “Nothing wrong with my kit,” he said sullenly.

“Sure, sure. But cash always comes in handy.”

“Right then. Double or nothing.”

Ned grinned as if he’d already won and his head glowed purple.

Spike watched as the little demon shuffled. A human might not have noticed the way he was manipulating the cards, but to Spike’s vampire eyes it was perfectly obvious. Ned was too stupid to realize he was playing against a vampire—he thought Spike was just another rube, somewhat dim and thoroughly pissed from the fifth of Jack he’d been working on.

After the cards were dealt, Spike looked at his. A pair of tens, a pair of sixes, and an ace. Not bad dealing, really. As hands went, it would be enough to give most people hope and a willingness to gamble big.

Ned’s beady eyes sparkled. “You wanna ante more, or are you okay with what we got?”

Spike chewed on his lip, gazed thoughtfully at his cards, and then nodded. “Yeah, all right. I’ll chip in another grand if I lose—and collect another grand if I win, yeah?”

Ned probably wasn’t aware that his head was glowing an avaricious orange. “Another thou, huh? You really must be courting Lady Luck tonight.”

Spike smiled enigmatically.

“You wanna draw?” Ned asked.

Spike peered at his hand, then at Ned, then back at his hand. Then he pulled a card out of his hand and set it on the table. “One.”

Ned dealt him a new card. Spike didn’t bother to glance at it, instead watching as Ned pretended to draw a card himself, but in fact replaced four of his with four cards he had up his sleeve. He smiled at Spike. “Wanna add more to our bet?”

“Nah. ’M good.”

“Okey-doke.” And with his uneven little teeth showing in a crooked grin, Ned set down his cards. “Full house,” he cackled.

Spike looked horrified. “Full house?” he squeaked.

“Yep. Kings high.”

“That’s . . . that’s a hell of a hand, mate.”

“What can I say? Maybe Lady Luck likes my threads.” Ned ran a hand over a lapel.

“Perhaps. Or . . . perhaps the old whore prefers leather.” And Spike set down his own hand.

Ned made a choking sound. “That’s . . . that’s—”

“Four aces, mate.”

“But that’s—” Ned stopped and looked around at the little crowd watching them. Of course he couldn’t admit to knowing that Spike had cheated—not without revealing that he’d cheated as well.

“That’s what?” Spike asked, allowing just a hint of fang to show in his smile. “A bloody good hand, I’d say.”

Ned had gone very pale. “Um . . . yeah. Good hand.”

Spike picked up the pot and thumbed through it. “Let’s see, this plus the extra thousand . . . looks like you owe me 3650, mate. Pay up and I’ll be on my way.”

“Uh . . .” The stubs of Ned’s feelers had gone a muddy brown that didn’t go at all well with the greenish tinge in his skin. “Uh . . . I kinda don’t have that kind of cash.”

“Oh?” Spike responded ominously, and his eyes glowed momentarily yellow.

“On me! I mean I don’t have it on me. Right now. ’Cause I don’t like to carry too much dough at once, right?”

“Right. The City of Angels is a dangerous town. Wouldn’t want anything nasty to happen to you over money, would we?”

Ned looked as if he might be sick. “I can . . . I can get it for you.”

“I’m sure you can,” Spike said with a sharp-toothed grin.

Ned again looked around nervously at the audience. “Can we maybe discuss this, um, in private?”

Spike shrugged.

When Ned tucked the cards into his pocket, Spike shoved his winnings into his duster. Then he followed the Sormach across the floor, past the long bar, and out the door. The Nest Lounge was in a neighborhood that was slightly down in the heels but hadn’t yet sunk to awful. It was the kind of place where the residents—many of them immigrants—worked hard at crap jobs and hoped their children ended up better off. The other shops on the street were closed at this hour: a little market, a locksmith, a fabric store, an insurance office, a place that sold Vietnamese sandwiches. But the traffic still rumbled by, dented Toyotas and rusted Fords belching more exhaust into a sky already so polluted Spike couldn’t see the stars.

As Ned fidgeted, Spike pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and blew the smoke out slowly.

“You wanted to discuss something?” Spike finally asked.

“You cheated!”

“Loads better than you did.”

“I didn’t . . . I didn’t know you were a vampire!”

Spike lifted one eyebrow. “And it would have been all right had I been human?”

“Why do you care whether I cheat humans?” Ned replied sullenly.

Spike exhaled another cloud of smoke. “New here, aren’t you?”

“So?”

“So if you’d been in town a bit you’d have heard of me and known I’m a different sort of vamp.”

Ned looked confused. Spike took another drag before flicking the cigarette butt into the street. “Look. This has been _my_ town for several years now. I had friends who died for this city, to defend the people who live here. So even if those people are idiot enough to fall for a two-bit fraud like you, I reckon I’m going to do my best to protect them. Not that they notice,” he added sourly.

Comprehension finally dawned on the Sormach’s pinched face. “You’re the vampire with a soul!”

“’T’s me.”

“Angel, right?”

Spike growled and had to stop himself from ripping out the Sormach’s throat. Ned lurched backwards in alarm.

Spike closed the distance between them but didn’t actually make contact. “Name’s Spike. William the Bloody. Angel’s . . . gone. I’m the only souled vampire now.”

“Of course! I’m sorry!”

Spike huffed out a calming breath and stepped back. “And you owe me thirty-six hundred.”

Ned’s head bobbed up and down rapidly. “I know, I know. It’s just, like I said, I don’t exactly have it on me.”

“Then let’s go fetch it.”

“It’s not . . .” Ned swallowed. “My brother has it.”

Spike was trying very hard to maintain his patience. “And where would he be?”

“He’s . . . up north. Mendocino. At the Sanctuary.”

Spike blinked at him. “The what now?”

A hint of Ned’s cockiness returned as he realized that now Spike was the confused one. “The Sanctuary. It’s new. It’s for demons—friendly types, right? You promise not to eat anyone and these do-gooder humans promise to keep you safe.  I don’t like the idea much. It’s like sticking Indians on a reservation, you know? But Bob—that’s my brother—he’s all hot on the place. Says it’s nice to finally be able wear antennae out in the open.” He shrugged. “He and his wife are building a cabin up there.”

“What kind of humans want to run a demon sanctuary?”

“I dunno, man. You know what’s crazy? Bob says one of ’em’s got a Slayer as a sister!”

***

The Sanctuary wasn’t easy to find, not even with the directions Spike had coerced from Ned. It was miles and miles from anything remotely resembling civilization, in a hilly, forested area where the clouds where almost thick enough to allow Spike to travel during the day. Perhaps some demons could find the Sanctuary easily, but the place didn’t seem especially welcoming to vampires. Even when he finally turned onto the rutted little road that he assumed led to the place, his Skylark came to a shuddering halt only a few yards later.

“Fuck.” Spike got out of the car and lifted the bonnet, but as far as he could tell there was nothing wrong—the engine had just quit. And he’d had the thing serviced not too long ago by a mechanic he trusted.

His head and upper torso were buried deeply in the guts of the car when a loud pop came from behind him, making him startle enough to bang his skull on the bonnet. “Oi!” he shouted, spinning around.

“Oh my goddess!”

Of the two of them, Willow was more surprised. After all, Spike had rather suspected that some of the Scoobies might be involved in this Sanctuary business. On the other hand, as far as he knew, Willow still thought he was dust.

“Sp-Spike?” she whispered.

He rubbed his bruised head. “In the flesh. How are you, Red?”

And then he was shocked as she rushed forward and threw her arms about him in a hug that would have been vigorous enough to leave a mortal man breathless. “You’re not dead!” she said against his shoulder.

“No more so than usual.”

She pulled slightly away, looking intently into his eyes. “Still with the soul?”

“Stuck on tight.”

She smiled and nodded. “Good. Then please, Spike. Enter the Sanctuary.”

After that, the ’Lark started right up. Willow hopped in on the passenger side and, as he drove slowly down the little lane, she sketched out the basics of what she’d been up to.

“Nibblet’s here as well?” he asked her.

“Yeah. Well, not right now. She and a couple of the residents drove down to San Francisco for a few days to round up some supplies. It’s not easy to keep this place warded.”

“Right.” He paused for a moment. “And . . . Buffy?”

“She’s in London, Spike. Along with most of the Slayers. They’ve sort of rebuilt the Watchers’ Council there, only less with the old men bossing women around. Oh! She doesn’t know about you, does she?”

“No,” he answered tightly.

Just then they turned a corner and he saw a clearing with what appeared to be a small village under construction, illuminated by several tall floodlights. Demons of many different sizes and descriptions were scurrying about—toting lumber or pushing wheelbarrows—and hammering echoed amongst the trees. At the edge of the clearing closest to him stood an older house, a two-story wood-framed number that had clearly been built long ago. In good condition, it had ornately carved posts on the porch and siding painted a cheery yellow.

Spike parked the car near the house. Demons turned to look as he followed Willow up the front stairs; several demons looked alarmed as they realized what Spike was. Spike ignored them, pausing only long enough for Willow to invite him into the house.

“So,” she said when they entered the kitchen. “We don’t have any blood. Sorry. You’re the only vampire here.”

“’S all right. Ate before I left.”

“Um . . . tea?”

He smiled at her. “That would be lovely.”

They sat at the oversized kitchen table, both of them with hands wrapped around warm cups and with fragrant steam drifting into their faces. She filled him in with more details about the last few years: how they had all gone to England after Sunnydale and how, eventually, she and Dawn had decided they would prefer to be back in the States, helping friendly demons instead of killing unfriendly ones. 

“Some monsters just need slaying, love,” he told her.

“I know. But not all. I mean . . . even some of the big bads can turn out okay if you give them a chance.”

He ducked his head to hide his pleased smile. But the grin disappeared when she spoke next: “Spike? What happened to you?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Then I’ll get us more tea.”

She did, and as they sipped he told her about his resurrection, about his year with Angel at Wolfram & Hart, about the battle they had fought.

She listened raptly, her eyes wide. “Did you win the fight?” she asked.

“Yeah. Mostly. Stopped the lawyers, anyhow. They decided to concentrate on other projects, I expect. But . . . we lost as well. Good friends.”

“Angel?”

Spike rubbed a forefinger along the edge of the table. The edge was very smooth, as if generations of diners had rubbed all the splinters away. “The poof survived. Sort of.”

She cocked her head at him, not understanding.

He sighed. “Was a sodding prophecy, yeah? The champion becomes a real boy. Earns his bloody redemption and all that rot.”

It took a moment for her to understand, and then she gasped. “Angel’s human!”

“Yeah.”

“Where . . . where is he?”

“Santa Fe.”

She blinked at him and he sighed again. “When he became human he . . . well, he forgot what he’d been. A gift from the Powers that Wank, I reckon. How could a man live with over two centuries of a demon’s memories? He thinks his name is Liam Collins, that he used to play hockey until he had a head injury that knocked a few screws loose. He thinks he had a family and they died when he was young—remembers them, modern and American: parents and a sister.” Spike shook his head. “He believes I’m a distant cousin.”

“Goddess,” she said quietly.

“He fancies the sun, so New Mexico seemed like a good spot for him. I had some dosh tucked away and I used it to get him set up with a life. He paints portraits for tourists. Makes a decent go of it.  He was married two years ago, to a yoga instructor called Rachelle. Last I heard they were expecting a baby.”

“Oh,” Willow said, and surprised Spike again by placing one of her hands on his. “I’m sorry, Spike.”

He scowled and looked away. “Sorry about what?”

“You’re a champion too. Maybe even a bigger one than Angel.”

Fuck. He was not going to break down and cry. “Don’t want to be human,” he said roughly. “Don’t want to be weak, get old and sick and die.”

She gave him a half-smile and patted his hand before wrapping hers back around her teacup. For a while after that, neither of them spoke. Then he cleared his throat. “So Buffy and the others . . . still fighting the good fight, yeah?”

“Of course. Um . . . but there’s something you should know.”

He didn’t like the tone of that. “What?”

“Buffy. She’s . . . she’s kinda got a guy. Pretty seriously. He’s the brother of one of the other Slayers and he—”

He put up his hand. “Don’t. Look . . . is he good to her? Is she happy?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugged. “All right, then.”

“You’re not—”

“I accepted it ages ago. She’s not mine and never will be. She deserves . . . someone else.”

“Oh, Spike.”

“Don’t want your pity,” he said with a snort. Then he stood and walked across the kitchen, looking through the window and into the dark forest that lay beyond. “My lessons are well-learnt about falling for Slayers. But . . . I’ve been fighting alone for years now and…and I’m tired of it.”

“You’re welcome here, Spike. You could help with the building, or—”

“Not much of a one for home improvement, love.” He turned to face her. “Do you reckon . . .  If I made it clear that I’ve no intention to lure the Slayer from her boy, do you reckon they’d let me join them? Fight alongside?”

Willow seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding decisively. “Yep. I bet they would.”

[Chapter Three](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/284727.html)   


 

 

  



	4. Chapter 4

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 3 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h9gtp/)  
---  
  
  
  


**Chapter Three**

_London, England, 2010_

“Ow, goddammit!”

“Oh, do stop fussing. It’s only a bit of antiseptic.”

Xander glared at Giles. “Is ‘antiseptic’ some special British way of saying sulfuric acid? ’Cause that’s what it feels like.”

“Whatever it may feel like, it’s certainly preferable to infection, so stay still.”

Xander glared even more murderously but did manage not to move as Giles smeared more of the awful stuff on his chest. When Giles was satisfied that he had burned all the germs into submission, he nodded to himself and covered Xander’s wound in fresh bandages. “You’re going to have rather a vivid scar, I’m afraid.”

“There goes my modeling career.” Xander gingerly reached for his t-shirt and slipped it on, but before he could leave their makeshift infirmary, Giles stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. 

“I’d like to look at your head as well,” Giles said.

“You mean I need my head examined?” Xander replied with a grin.

“Xander, you received a serious concussion and that demon’s claws—”

“Barely missed my one good eye. I know.” Xander sighed and sat down again. “But I feel okay now, really.”

“The dizziness and nausea are gone?” As Giles spoke, he poked at the tender spot on Xander’s skull, and Xander tried not to wince.

“Gone. I even ate a big dinner tonight and it was Ivana and Masuyo’s turn to cook, so you know my stomach had to be strong.”

Now Giles prodded at the deep cut just over Xander’s right eye. The skin was being held together by several stitches, and Xander supposed he’d end up with a scar there too. “You’ve no problems with light sensitivity?” Giles asked. “Your vision has been all right and you’ve been sleeping well?”

“Really, I’m fine. I’ve been bashed on the head before, Giles. I think I have an especially hard skull.”

“Wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” Giles responded drily, but at least he stopped frowning. Instead, he sat down on the metal examining table and sighed. “But you’ve suffered a great many head injuries and the damage can be accumulative. I do wish we had a proper physician here.”

“You’re doing fine. Better than Dr. Roberts, that’s for sure.” Which was true. Roberts might have been competent enough as a doctor, but the first time a Slayer had come to him sporting the effects of toxic demon snot, he’d freaked out. Probably someone should have explained to him what sort of business they were in before they’d hired him—the poor guy had apparently been under the impression they were running some sort of eccentric school for girls.

Giles spared him a small smile. “I think this time we ought to consider advertising—” But before Giles could explain exactly where he'd place Help Wanteds for physicians to the supernatural, a huge commotion erupted downstairs. The commotion involved a lot of screaming and crashing.

“Good Lord,” Giles said, beating Xander to the infirmary door because Xander’s foot was hobbled by the bulky plastic boot. Giles paused at the doorway and put up a hand to stop Xander. “I don’t want you rushing down the stairs in your condition, throwing yourself into God only knows what. Stay here.”

“My _condition_?” But Xander was talking to himself because Giles had already rushed away. And the truth was, the stairs were a pain in the ass with his broken foot, and whatever was going on downstairs he was a lot more likely to get in the way than to help. Still, he didn’t have to be happy about it, and he scowled as he limped down the faded carpets of the hallway and to his room. Usually he stayed on the third floor, but all those stairs were just too much for him right now, so Buffy and a few of the others had dragged his meager possessions downstairs to a funny little first floor suite that was tucked away in one corner of the building. At one time it might have been an office—there was a bigger room that might have been a reception area and, behind that, a small space where maybe the boss once sat. None of the Slayers had wanted the space because there were no windows, but Xander had discovered that he kind of liked it. It was quiet, with no daylight sneaking in to wake him up when he’d been up late, and he had a big bathroom all to himself just across the hall.

The girls had squeezed his bed into the smaller room, and they’d set up a futon and TV and a few other odds and ends of furniture in the larger room. The first few days of Xander’s convalescence, when he really had been tired and dizzy and sore and pukey-feeling, he’d lain on the futon, dozing in front of a German children’s show that starred a manic-depressive loaf of bread. 

Now, of course, dozing was out of the question. So instead he just sat on the red-covered mattress, the television screen blank, wondering what the hell was going on downstairs. Willow had placed an industrial-strength warding on the building before she flew back to California, but maybe the wards had worn out and something had managed to get through. Or maybe there was no external threat at all—it was entirely possible that the fuss he’d heard was a fight between a couple of the girls. The Slayers were an independent, strong-willed lot, and it wasn’t unusual for two or three of them to get into a pretty big tiff. Xander idly wondered if calling their battles catfights was still sexist if the cats he had in mind were Bengal tigers.

By now all was quiet, at least. Xander fidgeted, tapping out a song on his thigh, adjusting and readjusting a couple of throw pillows he’d been using to keep his foot elevated, mentally calculating how many meters of wood he’d need to replace the room’s missing crown molding. The digital minutes on his DVD player clock dragged by.

Over an hour later, Buffy appeared at his door. Her face was very pale. “What’s wrong?” he asked, struggling to stand.

She strode over and gently pushed him back down. “Nothing. Everything’s okay.”

“But all that noise . . .”

“Yeah.” She sat down beside him. “We, um, got an unexpected visitor.”

“Willow’s wards failed?”

She patted his knee reassuringly. “No, nothing like that. This is . . . a friendly visitor. Nowadays.”

He just squinted at her in confusion until she sighed. “It’s Spike. Spike just showed up at our door.”

He realized he was gaping and he closed his mouth. “Spike? Spike the vampire Spike?”

“Do you know a whole lot of other Spikes?”

He shook his head. “But he’s—”

“Not so much. It was a resurrection thingy.”

“Oh,” Xander said, supposing he shouldn’t really be that surprised. “Like when Willow and us, um . . .”

“Kinda. Except I have the feeling Spike didn’t exactly get sent to his happy place when he dusted. He’s pretty glad to be back on earth.”

“So what’s he doing here?” But even as the words were leaving his mouth, Xander realized what the answer must be. “Hey! So you told him about Luka and to back the hell off, right?” Because Xander liked Luka a lot and he liked what the guy did for Buffy—centered her, comforted her, loved her.

It was Buffy’s turn to shake her head. “He’s over me, Xan. I mean, turns out he’s been undead again for, like, eight years, and he’s never tried to contact me.”

“Are you sure he wasn’t spending those eight years stalking you? He’s a pretty good stalker.” 

She gave him a small smile. “I’m sure. He’s been in LA, and . . . it’s a long story. I think I’ll need more details later. But the short version is he heard about the Sanctuary and paid it a visit, and Willow gave him the 411 on us.”

“Nice of her to give us a heads up!” Xander complained.

“He begged her not to. I think he wanted to make an entrance. You know how he is.”

Xander frowned. He _did_ know how Spike was.

“Anyway,” Buffy continued, “he showed up because he wants to join us. He wants to fight with us again.”

“Why the hell would he want that?”

She smiled in a sad sort of way that suddenly reminded Xander very much of her mother. “I think he’s lonely,” Buffy said.

***

Spike and Xander eyed each other across the room. Spike looked exactly as he always had, with his stupid duster and his scuffed Docs and his tight black jeans and tee. His hair was still a radioactive yellow and still slicked back. He still brought the odor of cigarette smoke into a room with him. He stood just inside the doorway, his arms crossed on his chest, his face not quite sneering.

“No,” Xander finally said.

“It’s only temporary,” said Buffy. She’d placed herself strategically between them.

“Don’t care. No means no. I’ve _done_ my time. Twice!”

“You’ve done time!” Spike interjected. “I’m the one had to put up with your snoring and your horrible music and your stupid Superman knickers!”

Xander was caught between blushing and growling. “I snore because I’m actually _breathing_ , Deadboy, and my music totally beats that tuneless caterwauling you listen to. I can’t even tell if the lyrics are in English. And as for my underwear, at least I bother to wear the things. You—”

“Enough!” Buffy yelled, holding her arms out straight. “Can we please act like grownups for once? Xander, the basement’s still kinda flooded and these are the only bedrooms without windows. Besides, you have two rooms. Spike only needs one.”

“I’ll take the one with the telly,” Spike said, moving towards the set.

Xander hopped awkwardly over, trying to block him. “ _My_ television. Buffy! Why does he have to stay here at all? I’m sure there are plenty of moldy crypts he could haunt.”

 Her hands moved to her hips. “Because it’s best if everyone stays together; and if Spike’s gonna help out, the least we can do is give him room and board. He’s a strong ally, Xan.”

Spike looked insufferably smug. “In the unlikely event you develop a sex life, Harris, you can hang a sock on the doorknob and I’ll keep away for the five minutes it’ll take you.”

Buffy turned to give him the evil eye. “Keep your trap shut, Spike.” Then she turned back to Xander and batted her eyelashes in a way he should have been immune to, but wasn’t. “Please? Just until your foot heals, and then you can move back upstairs.”

Xander wanted to refuse, he really did. But there she was with the eyelashes and anyway he was fairly certain he’d eventually lose this battle anyway. He always had before. “Fine,” he sighed. “But _I_ get the room with the TV.”

***

“This is rot,” Spike said and reached for the clicker.

Xander held the remote out of Spike’s reach. “If you don’t like it you can leave.”

“Can’t. Bloody sunshine.”

“Not my problem.”

The truth was, Xander wasn’t especially enamored with the program either—an old doctor/cop show starring Dick Van Dyke. But now that Spike had complained, Xander wasn’t going to change the channel. So they both stared sullenly at the screen for several minutes. This was the problem with having chosen the room with the TV—Spike tended to want to watch it during the day, and it was hard for Xander to escape. Then Spike turned his attention to Xander instead; he was sitting to Xander’s left so Xander couldn’t actually see him staring, but he could feel his gaze and it made Xander’s neck all prickly.

Xander tried to ignore it, but eventually he twisted his head around. “What!” he demanded.

Spike cocked his head a little, as if Xander were a really interesting piece of modern art he was trying to figure out. “Your hair’s going gray,” he announced after a moment. “Just a bit, at the temples there.”

“Only since you arrived.”

“So you’re what? Thirty now?”

“So?” Onscreen, Dick was talking to a nun.

“You’re older than I was when I was turned.”

“So I’ve managed to stay alive longer than you did. Points for me, especially since I haven’t spent the last fifteen years prancing around writing sonnets.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Thirty years old and not a bird in sight. Going for World Championship Tossing Off, are you?”

“And how many ladies have you shagged lately, Bleachboy?”

Spike leered. “Who says it’s only ladies for me?”

Xander grinned back, not nearly as rattled as Spike had intended. “Or me?” He was supremely satisfied when both of Spike’s eyebrows flew upwards.

***

A small crowd had gathered in Xander’s room to witness the Ceremonial Removal of the Fucking Boot. Even Spike was there, leaning up against one wall, no doubt scheming how to rearrange the furniture once Xander was gone.

“Well?” Xander asked as Giles poked and prodded and bent and twisted and hemmed and hawed.

“Have you any discomfort?”

“Just from the stupid boot.”

“Stiffness?”

Xander ignored Spike’s suggestive snort. “No. I’m fine, Giles. I could dance all night.” He was aware of the note of pleading in his voice, but he really, really wanted to be free of the thing.

Giles frowned at Xander’s foot for a few moments more, then glanced over at Buffy and Luka, and at the three other Slayers who’d joined the fun just for kicks. Finally he looked back at Xander. “Very well. You can go without the boot.”

Xander whooped with delight. “Thanks, Giles! I could kiss you.”

Giles straightened up with a small groan. “Yes, well, let’s skip that bit, shall we?”

“So Harris really has turned to blokes then?” Turning to Xander, Spike asked, “None of the bints would have you?”

Several people glared at Spike. “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Xander said. “Why are you so fascinated with my sex life?”

“Or lack thereof,” retorted Spike.

“Whatever. Yes, I have engaged in the love that dare not speak its name. I’ve been bi-curious and bi-satisfied. I’m officially AC/DC. I switch hit, I play for both sides, I swing both ways, and I am very, _very_ flexible. There. Satisfied?”

Spike only smirked. “Not yet, love.”

Before Xander could craft a suitable retort, Giles made one of his purely Gilesian exasperated sounds. “Much as we are all enjoying this rather public exploration of topics some might wish would remain private, I suggest we turn to more important matters.”

“Like who’s gonna use her Slayer strength to schlep my TV upstairs?” Xander said hopefully.

“Like whether you’re in proper condition to undertake a task.”

Xander was taken by surprise. “A task?”

As if on cue, the three stray Slayers melted away. Xander figured they knew the entertainment portion of the evening had ended. Buffy sat down on the couch next to him, while Luka and Spike remained near the walls and Giles began to pace.

“Is this going to involve an expository lecture?” Spike asked. “Because I do love expository lectures.”

Giles ignored him. He was good at it. “Do you know anything about Venice, Xander?”

“Beach?”

“Italy.”

“Oh.” Xander scratched his head. “Canals? Gondolas? And, I’m guessing, some kind of nasty demon that needs dealing with.”

“Not exactly. You see, Venice has a very long history—”

“And now we’re going to hear every sodding detail of it,” Spike muttered, this time earning himself a dirty look.

“It was once an independent republic—somewhat of a democratic republic, in fact—and a great power in trade and commerce, as well as an important center for the arts. Unlike many other nations, the Venetians rarely engaged in warfare, although they did conquer some neighboring lands. Their primary interest was always profits. They were quite enterprising.”

Xander smiled. “Sounds like a place Anya would have liked.”

“A city with as much shipping traffic as Venice was bound to experience more than its share of demonic activity, as demons preyed on travelers or just simply passed through. Venice was also somewhat of a gateway for those who wished to go to the more exotic lands to the east, you see. Now, other cities tried to eradicate demons, even the fairly harmless ones, not only to save humans but also on religious grounds. But Venice took a more practical approach and sought to profit from them.”

“Profiting from demons. Got it,” Xander said, although he wasn’t sure he really did. He wished Giles would just get to the point.

Giles nodded. “So the Venetians appointed someone to, well, oversee demonic matters. Il ministro dei demoni. He ensured that relations with the supernatural world remained favorable to the Venetians. He acted a bit like an ambassador, a bit like an ombudsman. He guaranteed that demons refrained from harming humans—he had a small squad of armed men to back him up—and he protected demons from humans who might have been somewhat, erm, overzealous.” He glanced at Buffy, who shrugged. “The system worked well enough that it remained for centuries, remains even now, in fact. The Council kept an eye on Venice but from a distance.”

“But now something’s changed?” Xander asked.

“Yes. Perhaps. The name of the current ministro is Lorenzo da Ponte. He’s held the position for some time. But lately there have been rumors that he is not doing his job properly. Perhaps he’s corrupt, perhaps he’s too old. Perhaps the rumors are wrong. I don’t know. But we do need someone to investigate. To determine the true state of affairs.”

“Me?” Xander asked.

Buffy answered. “I can’t go, or any of the other girls. A Slayer’s just too high profile, and besides, the local demons wouldn’t trust us. But you can maybe slip under the radar a little better. Plus, if word gets around that you were working at the Sanctuary, the demons might think you’re on their side.”

Xander processed this information for a few moments. “So . . . you want me to be a kind of demon-related spy?”

“More or less,” said Buffy. “It won’t be a bad gig. You’ll mostly hang out for a few months, keep your ears open, send us a report now and then.”

“Are you sure you’re not just trying to get rid of me?”

“Xander!” She squeezed his shoulders hard enough to hurt. “There’s no getting rid of. We like you here. _I_ like you here.”

Giles stopped his pacing in front of Xander. “This is an important matter, Xander. If da Ponte is corrupt or incompetent, demons could gain a toehold in Venice and eventually cause difficulties all over central and southern Europe. You’re the best man for the job.”

Xander decided to allow himself to be flattered. It did sound like interesting work. He could probably find a lot of pizza, at least. “Okay. You got a spy.”

Buffy squished him again and Giles looked pleased.

“When do I leave?”

“We can have things arranged for you by Monday,” answered Giles. “We’ll find you a suitable flat and open an Italian bank account for you. We’ll have to be a bit creative with paperwork as you are not an EU citizen, but we’ll manage.”

“Does it matter that the only Italian I speak is kinds of noodles?”

“English is widely spoken in Venice.”

“Okay, then. Sounds like a plan.”

But he caught Buffy and Giles exchanging a nervous look. “What?” Xander demanded. “What is it?”

Buffy patted his knee. “Xan, we thought maybe it would be best if you didn’t go alone. We want you to take someone with you for . . . well, for extra security.”

“A bodyguard? You want me to have a bodyguard?” His voice was slightly squeaky with indignation.

“Not exactly. It’s just . . . maybe you’re still not a hundred percent after that last thing, and it couldn’t hurt to have some backup. “

“But I thought bringing a Slayer to Venice was a no-no.”

Another of those exchanged glances. “It isn’t a Slayer we have in mind,” Giles said.

Xander felt suddenly lightheaded as he had a premonition of what was coming next. A premonition that was confirmed when Giles and Buffy both sighed and looked across the room—to where Spike stood, wide-eyed.

[Chapter Four](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/285052.html)   


 

 

  



	5. Chapter 5

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 4 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001haddf/)  
---  
  
  


**Chapter Four**

_Venice, Italy, 2010_

The city didn’t smell as foul as Spike remembered. Perhaps the sewage removal had improved, or perhaps it was just the fresh spring breeze, which tousled his travel companion’s hair and teased the lagoon into little wavelets. Spike’s mood, however, was foul enough, and he glared at the water as if it had personally wronged him.

He didn’t mind being sent away from London, not really. When he’d made his way to the Council’s headquarters he had told himself that his feelings for Buffy were past, that it wouldn’t bother him to see her with her new boy. And that hadn’t been a complete lie. Spike had accepted long ago that she could never love him. _Should_ never love him. But every time he saw her smile at Luka, every time Luka patted her shoulder, every time the two of them laughed lightly over some shared joke, Spike’s dead heart twisted a bit. Not because he hoped to win Buffy, but because he was reminded over and over again of what he'd never had—not with her, not with anyone—and of what he never would have.

So he might have just packed up and left. But it had been so difficult to get from California to England, and he couldn’t quite face setting out into the world by himself again. So he had remained, fighting ghoulies at night, spending his days in the small pleasure of mildly tormenting Harris.

The same Harris who now stood at the back of the vaporetto, goggling over the moonlit views like any common tourist.

Spike scowled and sat in one of the plastic seats, cradling his duffel bag between his knees. He didn’t want to return to Venice, and he certainly didn’t want to be here with Droopy Boy. But Buffy had asked him, had convinced him that his services in Venice were badly needed, that in Venice he’d be so bloody useful. And he couldn’t refuse her. Never could.

“I wonder what’s on that island,” Xander said pointing.

“Corpses,” Spike muttered.

That caught Harris’s interest. “Really?”

“Really. Isola di San Michele. The entire place is one big cemetery. They used to bury their dead everywhere—hardly sanitary in a city that floods all the time. Napoleon’s men made them relocate all the stiffs to the island. Dru adored the place—it’s full of abandoned crypts and the like.”

“And vampires?”

Spike shrugged. “Not so much, at least when I was here last. Too inconvenient—there aren’t enough living people on the island to feed from. Actually, the city seemed short on vampires in general.”

Harris nodded. He opened his mouth as if to ask another question, but just then the boat bumped against a dock. “This is our stop,” Spike said, and led the way off the vaporetto, onto the floating pier, and then up onto the stone walkway. Harris had a rolling suitcase and the wheels clattered noisily.

They walked down a narrow street for only a few minutes before reaching a small square. Spike nodded his head approvingly at the location—not far from the center of things, but not overrun with tourists either. There was a bakery on the square and a restaurant and a shop that sold masks, all closed for the night. Their apartment building was three stories of  rust-red plaster with an oversized wooden door.

Harris had the keys. As the door creaked open they found themselves in a narrow sort of courtyard. The first door on the left was theirs. More unlocking. But when Spike attempted to enter, he was repelled by an invisible barrier. “The Watcher let the flat for me!” Spike protested to nobody in particular.

Harris was already inside. “He rented it for us, and it’s in my name. I guess vampire rules apply. So come on in, Spike.”

Spike did, stomping ungraciously down the hallway. The flat had two bedrooms, a living room, a small kitchen, and a rather nice bathroom. The floor was colored stone. It wasn’t posh but it wasn’t bad, and the windows all had heavy iron shutters that would block the sun effectively.

“Dibs on this one!” Harris said, dragging his suitcase into the bedroom with the larger bed. Spike frowned at him, dumped his bag on the bed in the other room, then prowled into the kitchen. As Rupert had promised, the fridge contained a few pints of packaged blood and there was more in the freezer. It was human, which was a nice touch. Someone was scheduled to deliver the stuff twice weekly for as long as they stayed, so at least Spike didn’t have to worry about how he was going to feed.  

“I’m starved,” Harris said, pushing him out of the way. “Is there anything actually edible in the house?”

“Depends who’s doing the eating,” Spike replied with a sharp-toothed grin.

“And I bet there aren’t any 7-Elevens or anything handy either.”

Spike ignored him. He took a single blood packet from the fridge but was then slightly dismayed to realize there was no microwave. He could heat the packet in a pot of warm water, but that took time and his stomach was empty. So he tore the packet open and guzzled the contents cold.

“Gross,” Harris said.

“Not nearly as disgusting as the toxic swill you used to consume. Have you ever wondered what’s in a slushie or a petrol station burrito?”

“Ah, but not knowing is half the fun.” Having made this pronouncement, Harris wandered away. A moment later, Spike heard the telly clicking on, followed a short time later by a wail of anguish. He rushed into the living room to find Harris standing in front of the telly looking stricken.

“What’s wrong?” Spike asked.

“It’s in Italian. It’s all in Italian.”

“That’s because you’re in Italy, berk.”

“But look! It’s _House_. That’s American. Dr. House should be speaking American, not Italian. And _all_ the shows are in Italian, every single one.”

“Hugh Laurie’s British. And stop whinging.”

“Hugh Laurie is British, but Greg House is American. Neither of them are Italian. And I’m not whining.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll leave you here to bemoan your horrible fate. I’m going out.”

Harris responded only by pushing buttons on the remote, as if he would find a suitable program if he just kept trying. Spike huffed at him and stalked out of the flat.

On the face of it, Venice was a confusing city, all narrow, twisty streets and canals popping up around every corner. Dru had informed him once that the city boasted over 400 bridges: “They all sing, my prince, like a heavenly choir.” When Spike and Drusilla had first arrived, he had become lost very quickly; but then he had learned that you never stayed lost for long. If you kept following the streets you might meet up with a few dead-ends, but eventually you’d find yourself somewhere familiar. It wasn’t that big an island, after all. And the city had changed very little since Spike had been there last—hell, it had changed very little since Christopher Columbus’s day. Spike had no trouble finding his way to the Grand Canal, where a few tourists still traipsed up and down the Rialto Bridge.

He stood for a long time at the apex of the bridge, watching the lights twinkle in the old palaces. The Venetians had always been skilled at showing off and even after centuries of use the buildings along the canal were still grand. Old memories came to him as he stood there, but he let them flow through his mind just as the water flowed under the bridge, until he was thinking of nothing at all.

He didn’t make a conscious decision to descend the bridge and head back northwest. In fact, he didn’t really become aware of where he was until he entered an oblong square and noticed the inscription on a building. It was in Hebrew. His stomach lurched unsteadily and he backed away, nearly falling onto the capped-over cistern in the center of the campo. He’d meant to stay far away from here—well, as far away as the small city permitted. The tall walls about him seemed to loom threateningly, the darkened windows like accusing eyes. The breeze seemed to bring him the hint of a familiar scent, sweet and tantalizing.

“Bugger this!” he said out loud. Give him a bit more time and he’d end up as barmy as Drusilla. He stomped out of the square—decisively, _sanely_ —and went in search of an open pub.

***

“I scoped out the neighborhood.”

Spike opened one slightly gummy eyelid. “You’re on my bed.”

Harris was sitting on the other side of the mattress. He bounced up and down a bit. “Yeah, and it’s comfier than mine. I think I got the raw end of the bedroom deal.”

“You wanted the other bedroom. Called dibs, as I recall.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t argue with me about it. I should’ve known then something was up.”

Spike squeezed his eye shut. But Harris wasn’t a mirage or hallucination, and he didn’t disappear when Spike looked again. “It’s bloody early. What do you want?”

“It’s three in the afternoon.”

“Vampire.”

Harris grinned unrepentantly. “Human. So I scoped out the neighborhood.”

“And?” Spike said with a heavy sigh.

“There’s a grocery store a few blocks away and a bunch of pizza and sandwich joints and some wine bars and two fish sellers—one of them had this giant puffer fish with glass eyes!—and a place that has really good gelato. Oh, and a little restaurant that sells crepes with Nutella.”

“Lovely. So you won’t starve. What else?”

“About a zillion places that sell masks—what is the deal with all the masks in this town? They’re kind of creepy—and you can buy scarves or postcards or t-shirts that have stripes like the gondola guys wear.”

Spike pushed away his recollections of the fate of at least one gondolier. “Why did you wake me up to tell me this?”

Harris bounced a few more times. “’Cause I’m bored. I walked around, I didn’t see anything more sinister than the guy charging four Euros for a can of Coke, even the talk shows and soap operas are in Italian and I’m bored.”

“I’m not here to entertain you.”

“Maybe not, but I bet you could give it a try.” _Bounce-bounce_.

As Spike stared balefully at Harris, who was grinning like an idiot, a realization struck him. The bloke was lonely. No real wonder, that—for ages, Harris had had nobody for company except Slayers and a few Watchers and a witch or two, and that lot tended to be constantly wound up in their own dramas. And now Harris didn’t even have that. Well, it was his own fault, Spike concluded. Harris was human and fairly normal and not too hideous-looking. If he wanted to, he could have an ordinary life, find an ordinary girl and an ordinary job and ordinary friends. It wasn’t as if he were a freak who fit nowhere at all, like a souled vampire.

“Look,” Spike said with a sigh. “It’s a beautiful city. People come from all over the world to see it. Why don’t you have a nice wander about, take in a few of the sights. Meet me back here at sunset and we’ll see if we can’t get a feel for the demon side of the city.”

Harris seemed to consider for a few moments, and then nodded. “Yeah, okay.” He gave the mattress one last good jiggle and then he was gone. 

***

Six o’clock was a much more appropriate time for a creature of the night to crawl out of bed. Spike was pleased to note that the shower had good water pressure. And Harris must have bought some soap while he was at the grocer’s—a big bar that smelled of vanilla and cinnamon and that Spike rather liked, although he would never admit it. 

The front door slammed just as Spike was putting a pot of water on the stove. Harris wandered into the kitchen, a cardboard pizza box balanced in one hand. He nodded at Spike, grabbed a plate from the rack above the sink, sat down at the table, then took an enormous bite of his pie. “Did you know if you ask for a pepperoni pizza in Venice, you get one with red peppers on it?” he asked with his mouth full.

“I expect that’s how you say pepper in Italian.”

“Okay, but then how do you say pepperoni? ’Cause I’m not against a few veggies here and there, but I’m all with the spicy sausage goodness.”

“Spicy sausage?” Spike responded, lifting one eyebrow suggestively.

Xander pointed his pizza slice at Spike. “Your double entendres do not bother me, oh bleached one.”

“Because you’ve decided to explore your poofier side.”

“You can call me names, too. I am secure in my masculinity.” He took another big bite.

Spike decided he didn’t have the energy to torment Harris more at the moment. He plopped a plastic bag of blood into the barely warm water and leaned back against the counter.

“Making blood soup?” Harris asked.

“Heating it a bit. Tastes like shite when it’s cold.”

“Oh. I guess that’s how vampires managed before there were microwaves, huh?”

“Vampires managed by tearing out their victims’ throats, git.”

To Spike’s surprise, Harris only shrugged. “Yeah, okay. There was that.” He pointed at the box in front of him. “Help yourself if you want some.”

That surprised Spike as well. He did take a slice and he chewed happily on the hot cheese and crisp crust while he waited for his real meal to heat. “Did you do anything but eat today?”

“Yeah. I walked. A lot, actually. And I watched this poor guy delivering these really heavy boxes—he had to weave his cart in and out around the tourists and then up and down the stairs on the bridges. And I thought I had sucky jobs after high school.”

Spike dug around in the cupboard, looking for a mug. He found only espresso cups, pretty little white ones with bright orange flowers that weren’t remotely going to hold a pint for him. He had to settle on a soup bowl instead. “You found a good position eventually, back in Sunnyhell.” His back still to Harris, he waved one arm vaguely. “Building things, yeah? And you were good at it.”

He turned in time to see Harris giving him a surprised grin. “I was,” Harris said.

“So why not do that now? Why be a piss-poor demon hunter when you could be a decent carpenter instead?”

“I still fix stuff. That heaps of bricks we’re using for HQ, it might have fallen down by now if not for me. And I spent a couple months at the Sanctuary, swinging a hammer.”

“But that’s just part-time.” Spike decided he was too hungry to wait any longer for his breakfast. He swallowed the last of the pizza and tore the blood packet open and poured the contents into his bowl. He carried the bowl to the table and seated himself across from Harris. “You still spend most of your time throwing yourself at the wolves and getting patched up after.” He lifted the bowl and took a long, not-very-satisfying slurp.

Harris looked thoughtfully at the red-checked pattern atop the pizza box. “Yeah, I know. I’ve even thought now and then about hanging up my stake. But . . . I dunno. I’d feel bad, knowing I was out there with the picket fence and the two point three kids, while my friends were saving the world. Maybe I’ll quit soon.” He looked up at Spike, with his one eye sparkling. “I _am_ getting pretty old, you know.”

They finished the rest of their meal in silence, Spike thinking about obligations and what it meant to be a hero. He used a bit of pizza crust to sop up the last drops of blood; Harris didn’t even wince. Then Spike stood and rubbed his full belly. “Let’s go for a walk.”

[Chapter Five](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/285351.html)   


  



	6. Chapter 6

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 5 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h6bgp/)  
---  
  
  
  


**Chapter Five**

Spike made a pretty good tour guide. Not that Xander was about to tell him so, of course; but the fact was, the vampire knew lots of things. He pointed out famous houses as they walked—turned out Casanova was practically their next-door neighbor—and retold ancient scandals. “Used to be a convent there, back in the seventeenth century,” he said, pointing at a pink marble building. “But this priest was accused of scaling the walls, shagging the nuns. Randy old git had a whole string of birds in there, waiting for him. He got sacked over that. But what really got him in trouble was he had the nuns embezzling for him. _That_ got him excommunicated. You don’t fuck with a Venetian’s dosh.”

Xander pictured a guy in a cassock trying to make it over the slippery sides of the building. “How do you know all this stuff, Spike?”

“Went to school, didn’t I? Back in the days when students were actually taught something.”

“See, now you sound like my grandpa. Next you’re gonna tell me how you had to walk five miles to school barefoot in the snow. Uphill both ways.”

“Git,” Spike said, but without any heat.

The crowds around Piazza San Marco were still pretty thick. People sat at the cafes, listening to bands play music, while others browsed at the souvenir stands, considering whether to buy jester hats or balloons or little plastic gondolas. Xander followed Spike, pausing when he did in front of an area that was covered in scaffolding. “Bridge of size,” Spike said, pointing.

“It’s hard to tell under all that plastic, but it doesn’t look that big to me.”

Spike squinted at him in puzzlement before rolling his eyes. “Sighs, idiot. S-I-G-H-S. Condemned men crossed there on their way from the Doge’s interrogation rooms to the prison on the other side of the canal. The tale is, they’d sigh as they had their last view of the city. All bollocks, really. Byron made it famous, long after the fact.”

“Byron?”

“Lord Byron. English poet. A bit of a goer—slept with married women, men, girls and boys. Close relatives. Wrote a bit of rubbish about vampires. The Greeks adored him.”

“Did you know him?”

Spike looked disgusted. “He died over thirty years before I was born. Really, your ignorance is appalling.”

Xander grinned at him. “Uh-huh, grandpa.”

Spike looked like he might be considering tossing Xander into the water. But then he froze, looking at something over Xander’s shoulder and narrowing his eyes. “There’s an Andiotti over there.”

“Is that a famous sculpture or something?”

“Demon.”

“Oh.” Xander turned to look, but didn’t see anything unusual. Still, he figured Spike was the expert in these things. “I have a stake in my pocket and a knife in my boot. Should I get them out?”

Spike looked slightly impressed. “Knife in your boot?”

“Always be prepared.”

“Well, Andiotti are usually friendly sorts, Boy Scout. Follow me.”

Xander did, and they weaved in and out of the clots of tourists until they stopped in front of a man with an ice cream cart. He wasn’t a very handsome man—he was very tall and thin, with a lantern jaw and eyes too far apart—but he wouldn’t have attracted Xander’s notice. “Gelato?” he asked in an oddly high-pitched voice that didn’t suit him at all.

“Vampire,” Spike replied, flashing just a hint of fang.

The man went very pale and began talking rapidly in a language that Xander didn’t understand but was fairly certain wasn’t English. It sounded like a jammed garbage disposal. And then, to his astonishment, Spike answered the guy, grumbling and growling away at him. A few minutes of spirited discussion ensued, during which Xander stood there feeling stupid, but by the end of it the ice cream seller had visibly relaxed.

Spike took Xander’s arm and pulled him away. “He’ll meet us at a pub in half an hour. He wants to stow his cart first.”

Xander was faintly disappointed he hadn’t got any gelato out of the deal, but he obediently followed Spike back through the crowds, under an arcade, and then away from the piazza. “You spoke that guy’s language,” Xander said.

“I know loads of demon languages. Human as well. Unfortunately, Italian’s not one of them.”

“That’s kinda cool. I only made it through tenth grade French with Willow’s help.”

Spike turned his head and gave Xander an odd, searching look, but didn’t say anything.

They got to the bar before the demon did. It turned out to be sort of an internet cafe, with long tables and benches in the front and a curved bar and, in the back, a bunch of bright and jangling slot machines. The girl behind the counter was Chinese—which, it turned out, was another language Spike could handle—and he ordered something involving lots of whiskey for himself, and a big glass of Heineken for Xander. They sat at one of the tables to wait, watching a pair of tourists in matching windbreakers clacking away at their keyboards two tables over.

“The purpose of this meeting?” Xander asked.

“Info gathering.” Spike took a long swallow from his glass and pointed his finger at Xander. “You just keep your trap shut, yeah?”

Xander nodded, figuring that wasn’t going to be much of an issue if he didn’t understand a word anyway. But then the ice cream seller, his cart stashed, entered the bar and took a can of Red Bull from the cooler. The waitress brought him a glass and exchanged a few pleasant words in Italian; Xander got the idea the guy came to this place often. “Gmmrognflghnx,” the demon said to Spike, or something like it.

“How about we try English instead?” Spike said. He cocked a thumb at Xander. “He’s monolingual.”

“Goes with being monocular,” Xander said, and then remembered he wasn’t supposed to talk.

“Okay,” the demon said. “No problem.” And then he squinted at Xander. “He does not look like a vampire.”

Xander decided that was a compliment.

“He isn’t,” replied Spike, but didn’t elaborate. “His name’s Harris, I’m Spike. And you?”

The demon shrugged. “Here I am Paolo. The peoples have troubles with my real name.”

“All right, Paolo. Why don’t you give us the rundown. Where are the monster problems in this town?”

Paolo’s eyes went wide. “You wish to become master of Venice! I am telling you, this is very bad idea. Il ministro, he does not like vampires, and—”

“Don’t want to be master. That’s rot anyway.”

The Andiotti relaxed a little. “This is good. But the Harris—he is not your pet then?”

Xander opened his mouth and shut it, then waited to see how Spike would respond. The gears were turning almost visibly in the vampire’s head. “No. But he’s . . . he’s important to me. And to loads of Slayers. So perhaps the word could get about town that he isn’t to be messed with.”

“I understand,” Paolo replied. “I will tell my friends and they will say to others. Be nice to vampire’s one-eyed human.”

Spike snorted softly and cocked an eyebrow at Xander, as if daring him to say something. But Xander didn’t—he just sipped at his beer.

“This il ministro bloke, he keeps a close eye on things?” Spike asked.

“He does,” answered Paolo. Then he shifted uncomfortably in his seat and played with his can. “He did.”

“But now . . . ?”

“I do not know. I am a simple man. I sell gelato, it makes the tourists happy, all is well. I do not meddle in others’ affairs.”

Spike leaned forward over the table. Not menacing, Xander decided. Just intense. “But you hear things.”

“Sometimes I hear things,” Paolo said with a sigh. “And I have heard . . . perhaps things are not so well with il ministro. Perhaps there is more . . . troubles in Venezia now. This is not a good thing. Cannaregio, Santa Croce, they are quiet. But in the other sestieri . . . troubles.”

“What kind of troubles? What’s causing them?”

Paolo shook his head. “I do not know. As I say, I am a simple man.”

Spike sat back again and had a healthy slug of his drink. He gave the Andiotti a long, close look. “Right then. Do you know someone who’s a bit . . . more complicated?”

Paolo looked at Spike and at Xander. He cocked his head a little, frowning, then his face smoothed into a small smile. “It is good that this human belongs to you. Your . . . I do not know the word in English . . . ” He made another garbage disposal sound. “They are good together. Okay. I know a not-so-simple man. I will tell him . . . You can meet him here tomorrow?”

“Fine.”

Spike and the demon exchanged a few more words then—words in the demon’s language so Xander couldn’t understand, but the discussion did involve glances in his direction. Then Spike finished off his drink and gestured impatiently to Xander to do the same. 

“Good luck,” Paolo said as they made their way to the door.

Spike and Xander both waved at him and left.

When they were a block or so away, Xander poked Spike’s bicep. “What was all that about?”

“He’s telling the truth, I expect. Really doesn’t know much. We’ll get more details from the bloke tomorrow.”

“But what about the part where you said I was . . . you said I was your pet.”

“No, I said you _weren’t_ my pet.” Spike shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. “The other bit, well, that was just insurance, like. Slayer’d have my hide if something ate you here.”

“Oh.”

Spike looked at him from the corner of his eye. “You didn’t protest.”

“You said to stay quiet. I stayed quiet. Mostly.”

“Doesn’t bother you if the demons here think you’re . . . if they think you’re mine?”

“Hey, if it keeps my hide intact they can think away. I’ll wear a t-shirt: I Heart Spike.”

Spike gave him an inscrutable look and then grabbed his elbow and dragged him down a street so narrow Xander could reach out and touch the walls on both sides. They had to walk single file, but Xander stayed close on Spike’s heels. “What about that other part?” Xander asked. “The part where Paolo didn’t know the English word for it. What was he talking about?”

“I’ve no bloody clue,” Spike responded, but even from behind, Xander could tell he was lying.

Spike sped up, and Xander slowed down because he was annoyed, and after a few minutes and a few twists and turns he lost sight of Spike altogether. Which was a bad thing, because Xander had no idea where he was or how to get back to the apartment. He didn’t have a map. And the streets in this part of town were dark and empty of people.

Xander stopped and tried to backtrack. If he could find his way to the Grand Canal or any of the other landmarks he was familiar with, he could find his way home. But instead he ended up in a dead-end courtyard, and then down an alley past a closed and stinky public WC, and then beside a produce market boarded up for the night. Eventually, he admitted it to himself: he was lost. By then he was in what seemed to be a purely residential area. He sat on a bench in the middle of a square and contemplated his next move. He really wished he had thought to get Spike a cell phone. Xander had one, but what was he going to do—call London and tell them he was a complete moron?

As he sat there thinking of all the flavors stupidity came in, he noticed an especially narrow street that led from one corner of the square. He couldn’t exactly say why, but there was something intriguing about it. Maybe he’d passed this way earlier in the day and it was vaguely familiar. He got slowly to his feet and made his way across the campo, stubbing one toe on a bit of broken stone as he went. 

There were a few doors as he entered the street, but just blank walls farther on. The street was very dark and Xander realized that the buildings on either side of him were joined at the second floor, turning the street into a sort of tunnel. It smelled rank, like cat pee and garbage, but up ahead there was . . . something. Like a song he could almost hear, or like a soft light his missing eye could almost see. He continued down the passageway slowly, step by quietly echoing step.

A sort of gutter ran alongside one edge of the street; it was fairly deep, at least eighteen inches, and Xander supposed it was intended to help drain excess water away during the city’s frequent floods. He wasn’t sure the drainage would work very well, though, because the gutter was stuffed full of wadded newspapers and crumpled cardboard, empty cigarette packs and plastic bags, bottles and cups and bits of debris he couldn’t identify—and probably wouldn’t want to. Venice was otherwise a pretty clean city. It was as if all its trash had somehow accumulated here, in this mostly forgotten little passage.

The street turned a little and Xander could see a glimpse of open air and, he thought, water on the other end. He hoped that maybe that was the Grand Canal he had sighted, or at least the lagoon; either way, he’d be able to find his way home. But just as he was about to hurry forward, the papers beside him rustled. A very faint moan came from underneath them, a sort of ghost of a keen.

“I’m going to regret this,” Xander whispered to himself. But nonetheless he knelt on the hard stone and peered at the gutter, trying to see who—or what—was there. “Hello? Are you hurt?”

The only answer he received was another dry crackle of paper. He took a deep breath, silently cursed his own idiocy once again, and brushed the papers away.

It was a man. A very dirty man, his hair long and matted, and as far as Xander could tell, the man wasn’t wearing any clothes. All of which was alarming enough, but then the man turned his head just a little and lifted one arm, and even in the dim light Xander could see that he was terribly mutilated.

“Oh, fuck,” Xander breathed. It didn’t look like the guy’s wounds were recent, at least. Both of his eyes looked like Xander’s left one: blank and empty, but sort of smoothed over, the flesh long since healed as best as it could. Where the man’s lower arm should have been was simply a rounded stump. “Do you . . . Can I help you?” Xander asked, knowing that the man probably couldn’t understand him.

But the man went very still, as if he were listening. And then he moved his other arm—also just a stump, Xander saw with horror—and slowly raised them both at Xander in supplication. He made a little sound, a kind of moaning mewl. And even through the grime, Xander could see that this was a young man, maybe once a beautiful man. He looked starved now, his cheekbones prominent, but once he’d maybe been strong as well.

Belatedly, Xander realized that there was no way this was some ordinary damaged human. Maybe it had taken Xander a few minutes to catch on, but he’d been around supernatural stuff all his life and there was definitely something . . . weird here. As if finding a naked, maimed man in a gutter wasn’t weird enough. 

So Xander made a decision. Simply abandoning this person to his fate was out of the question. So was calling the Venetian equivalent of 911. The cops here had flashy boats, but Xander had the strong intuition that they were as clueless about weird things as the Sunnydale police had been. Xander nodded at the man, even though he knew the man couldn’t see him. “All right,” he said. “I’m gonna take you someplace safe.”

The man exhaled loudly, the sound of it almost a sob. Xander got to his feet and then bent again so he could lift the man into his arms. But just as he got the man settled—and oh Christ, his legs were mostly chopped off too, and his penis was just . . . gone—the noise of running footsteps came from behind him. Xander whirled, managing to keep his grip on the wounded man.

Then he heard the anguished cry, “Xander! Don’t!”

[Chapter Six](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/285578.html)   


  



	7. Chapter 7

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 6 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h7frc/)  
---  
  
  
  


**Chapter Six**

_Thirty minutes earlier . . ._

Spike’s mind was whirling. He should have been busying himself with thoughts of what Paolo the Andiotti had told him, and with speculations about what was going on with il ministro and what, if anything, Spike might have to do to sort the situation. But instead he was thinking about Xander Harris.

Xander had surprised him several times that day: first, by seeming genuinely interested in Spike’s narrated tour of the city and genuinely impressed by Spike’s knowledge. Second, by carrying both a stake and a knife on him so he would be prepared for whatever they encountered. Third, by complimenting Spike on his language skills. And finally, by not squawking when Spike had implied to Paolo—and by extension, the entire Venetian demon community—that Xander belonged to him. All of that would probably have been plenty to keep Spike’s mind busy, because few things had the capacity to astonish him anymore.

But there was more. Andiotti possessed senses that humans and vampires lacked, including the ability to perceive a person’s . . . well, Spike reckoned that aura was the closest equivalent term, although he didn’t think it was quite right. An Andiotti had tried to explain it to him once, but it was very much like trying to explain a rainbow to someone blind from birth; Spike was able to get only a very vague impression what the bloke had meant. It was an emanation that each living thing gave off, as unique as a fingerprint, and it conveyed some idea of the individual’s history and mood and personality and even, Spike thought, future. An Andiotti mated for life, and only with someone whose aura was harmonious with his own. Auras determined close friendships as well. So the fact that Paolo had mentioned that Spike’s aura mixed well with Xander’s . . . that was interesting, and more than a bit unsettling.

Spike was so busy thinking about Xander that it took him some time to realize they had become separated. “Fuck,” he said out loud. They’d only been in town a day; what if something bad had happened to Xander already? Buffy would castrate him.

On the other hand, Xander had turned out to be somewhat more capable than Spike had expected, thus far. He’d even managed to keep his mouth shut during the conversation with Paolo, which was a far cry from his usual babbling ways. Perhaps he had also managed to find his own way home.

But when Spike got to the flat the lights were off and nobody was home. He swore to himself again and stomped back outside. A few people were still eating at the outdoor tables of the restaurant in the square, but no sign of Xander. Right then. Spike would have to track him.

Sniffing as discretely as possible, Spike backtracked. It took him several blocks to pick up the boy’s scent, and when he did, he quickly ascertained that Xander had gone off in the wrong direction, heading generally northwest when he should have turned northeast. At least there were no odors to suggest that his journey had been anything but voluntary—no fresh demon smells, no acrid tang of fear. 

At some level, Spike realized what was about to happen even before he entered the campo in the old Jewish ghetto. Along with Xander’s scent, his sensitive nose had picked up something almost intoxicatingly sweet and fragrant, something a bit like freshly baked bread. But he didn’t consciously acknowledge what he was sensing until he couldn’t deny it any longer. That’s when he spied the tiny, covered street and heard Xander’s tentative voice coming from inside.

Spike ran.

When he turned the corner, he saw Xander just straightening as he lifted a heavy burden. Xander’s back was to him, mostly blocking his view, but Spike had no doubt what Xander had just discovered.

“Xander! Don’t!” he shouted.

Xander spun around. Someone was cradled in his arms, emaciated, filthy, and horribly mutilated. Sixty years later, Spike still didn’t know what the creature was, but he was very certain it was not human.

To his credit, Xander didn’t drop his burden. “What the hell, Spike?” he asked.

Spike skidded to a halt. “That’s not . . . I know it looks like a man who needs help, but—”

“You _know_ this guy?”

“I don’t— We’ve met before. Ages ago.”

“Who is he?”

“Don’t know.”

Xander looked down at the creature, lying very still in his arms. But then Spike saw that the creature was inhaling, scenting the air much like he had just been doing. And the creature made a horrible gargled noise, shaking his head rapidly. “You met him in your bad old days, didn’t you?” Xander said accusingly to Spike.

“Yeah.”

Xander swallowed audibly. “You didn’t . . . you didn’t do this to him, did you?”

“No! Christ, no. I didn’t . . . Torture wasn’t really my style, was it?”

It seemed to Spike that the tense lines of Xander’s face relaxed a bit. “No, I guess not. Angelus, yeah. But not you.”

The creature made another noise, this one sounding surprised. Spike felt inexplicably relieved at Xander’s words, but still uneasy that Xander was cradling the thing. “It’s dangerous, Xander,” Spike warned.

“Doesn’t look very dangerous to me. Getting kinda heavy, though.” He huffed out a breath and looked down at the thing’s blind face. “Do you want help?”

The thing nodded and whimpered.

“Okay. And are you gonna hurt us?”

Now the thing frowned as if the question confused it, and it shook its head.

“Good enough for me,” Xander said. “If you could just point me in the right direction, Spike.”

Spike considered refusing. But he could see the stubborn set to Xander’s jaw, and he knew perfectly well that the boy wasn’t about to simply abandon his new acquisition. “Give him to me,” Spike said gruffly, and jostled the creature out of Xander’s grip and into his own. “You’ll just end up dropping it on its head or into a canal. Or giving yourself a heart attack.”

“I am not that ancient,” Xander protested, but seemed happy enough to have Spike doing the carrying.

The creature didn’t move much on the journey, but it turned its face towards Spike’s chest and snuffled loudly, then made a quiet interrogative sound.

“Do you remember me?” Spike asked.

It nodded twice.

“You know what I am?”

It tilted its head slightly, exposing its dirty neck.

“Right. But I’m not . . . I’ve changed since then.”

Spike couldn’t tell whether it cared, or whether it even understood. It simply relaxed in his arms, its head bouncing slightly against his shoulder as he walked.

“Um . . . Spike?”

Spike turned to look at Xander, who had followed him out of the street and into the campo, and was now frowning anxiously.

“What?” Spike demanded.

“I know there aren’t a whole lot of people out now, but there’s some and, um, they’re gonna notice you guys.”

“You were the one who picked up the sodding stray,” Spike growled, although he knew Xander was right.

Xander shrugged, then slipped his jacket off his shoulders before draping it over the creature’s body. Of course, that still left the stumps of its arms and legs sticking out, not to mention its blind face and its terribly matted hair. They would just have to stick to the lesser-traveled streets. At least it wasn’t far, and it was dark enough that passersby who got only a glimpse might not notice what Spike was carrying.

Spike hurried and Xander trotted along at his side. When Spike glanced over, he saw that the boy looked worried, his eye clouded with questions, but Xander was keeping his mouth closed and two or three times even had the wits to use his own body to block a stranger’s view of Spike.

They made it back to the flat without further incident. Xander fumbled open the locks on the outer door and then on the inner one, but then Spike stood uncertainly in the hallway of the flat. “Where d’you want it delivered?” he asked.

“Umm . . .” Xander looked about, as if a mystery creature receiving-box might suddenly appear. “How about your bed?”

“Mine?” Spike asked indignantly.

“It’s softer. Look, you can have mine, okay? I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Spike grumbled wordlessly, but he did walk into his bedroom and deposit his burden on the bed. Gently, even. Because although Spike didn’t trust the creature at all, it had somehow stirred his caring instincts, just as it had all those soulless years ago. It lay on the rumpled bedcovers, looking terrified and astonished. And, in the overhead lights, indescribably filthy.

Xander and Spike both stood over the mattress, looking down. Finally, Xander cleared his throat and spoke to the figure. “Um, I don’t suppose there’s someone we can call for you? Friends? Family?”

The thing grunted softly and shook its head.

“Didn’t think so. Are you hungry? I’m not sure . . . Do you eat human food?”

A pause and then a slow headshake.

“Uh, blood?”

The thing shook its head again and Spike snorted. “It’s not a vampire, berk.”

“I _know_ that, Spike. But other things drink blood, too. Um . . . those skinny greenish things with the scales and the, the . . .” He wiggled his fingers near his forehead.

“D’f’rlt.”

“Yeah. Those.”

“Well, this is no D’f’rlt.”

“No shit.” Xander rubbed tiredly at his eyepatch, and Spike wondered whether the missing eye bothered him sometimes.

“Look, mate,” Spike said to the thing on his bed. “Is there something we can feed you with?”

Once again it shook its head.

“But everyone’s gotta eat _something_ ,” Xander said, turning to Spike. “Right?”

“Dunno. Let’s . . . let’s sort what it is first.”

“And how do you intend to do that?”

“I don’t bloody know!” Spike retorted, much more sharply than he intended because he didn’t like not knowing things. Not knowing was dangerous. Unsettling. Xander actually looked slightly hurt by the little outburst, which didn’t improve Spike’s mood any. But Spike took a calming breath and noticed that the creature was trembling, its chest moving rapidly and its heart racing like a frightened rabbit’s. It raised its mangled arms in front of its face and tried to curl into itself, as if it were trying to protect itself. As if it _could_ protect itself.

“Let’s clean it up, yeah?” said Spike. “Perhaps with all the filth gone we’ll have a better idea what it is.”

Xander nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Bathing the creature was . . . a challenge. Their flat didn’t have a tub, but it did have a shower big enough to fit one man, one vampire, and one mystery thing. Spike carried their guest into the shower and set him down on the tile, propping him upright in the corner. Then he and Xander exchanged glances. Spike grinned slightly and began to strip. After a brief pause, so did Xander, beginning with his eye patch. He stopped when he was down to his pale blue boxers; but Spike, not wearing any, was completely bare. And despite their rather strange situation and the presence of the potentially hazardous creature in the shower with them, Spike couldn’t help but notice that Xander had a lovely body: trim around the waist and muscular in the chest and arms, a few scars here and there adding interest rather than reducing the attractiveness. He also noticed the way Xander’s face colored slightly and his heartbeat sped just a bit when he stole glances at Spike. Interesting. 

But for now they had a task. Spike turned on the water, setting it at a temperature that felt comfortably warm to him. He hadn’t any idea how it felt to humans or the thing on the floor. But then neither of them complained. In fact, the creature turned his face up to meet the spray and actually smiled a little, which for some reason made Spike’s unbeating heart twist in his chest.

Xander knelt on the tile and worked a bar of soap over the creature’s skin. He was gentle about it but thorough, taking care to cleanse all the tiny crevices. Spike noticed that he was extra cautious around the missing eyes, but then Xander was experienced at that, wasn’t he?

Eventually the creature’s front was clean. His skin was hairless and paler even than Spike’s, as if he were made of marble, and his disfigurements didn’t look any less awful without the camouflage of dirt. The last bit that Xander cleaned was the creature’s groin, and he was especially tender as he cleaned the lonely-looking bollocks, the terrible little indentation where a cock should be. It occurred to Spike then that the creature didn’t have any visible means to piss; well, perhaps like a vampire, he didn’t need to.

“I think . . . I think we’re gonna just have to cut this all off,” Xander said sadly, poking at the matted curls on the creature’s head.

Spike had been somewhat distracted by the way Xander’s own dark hair was shedding rivulets of water down the broad back. He grunted. “Do the other side before we run out of hot water.”

That took some work. Xander had to put down the soap and then maneuver the slippery creature away from the wall and onto his side. The creature seemed to want to cooperate, but his movements were fairly uncoordinated. Finally, though, he was in place and Spike directed the spray at his bony spine. 

Xander resumed his scrubbing. But when he got to the area between the shoulders, he said, “What the hell?”

“What?” Spike demanded. He’d been distracted again. The water had turned the cotton of Xander’s boxers nearly transparent.

“Look,” Xander said, and leaned out of the way.

The creature’s back bore two long scars: an inverted V that almost met at the top of the scapulae. The scars were pinkish and slightly raw looking, two or three inches thick, and each line ran down its back to the bottom of the ribcage.

“Wings,” Xander whispered. “Jesus Christ. Did you have wings?”

And the creature whimpered miserably and nodded once.

***

“Maybe we should call Giles or somebody,” Xander said. He was sitting on the sofa next to Spike, and Spike realized somewhat belatedly that while the sofa was comfortable enough for sitting, it was too short to serve either of them as a bed. That was a problem to be tackled later. Right now, he and Xander were each clutching a bottle of beer and trying to sort what to do. They’d worked together drying their guest with a big towel, and the creature had seemed to enjoy that very much, rubbing his cheek against the thick, soft fabric and stroking it with the stumps of his arms. Spike and Xander had pulled their clothing on. Xander had found a pair of kitchen scissors and used it to hack the creature’s hair almost to his scalp, so that none of the tangles remained. And then Spike had carried him into the bedroom and set him on the bed, and the creature had sighed in contentment as Xander pulled the blankets over him. The creature was certainly cleaner now, but he looked exhausted. Judging by the slowing of his heartbeat, he was asleep before Spike and Xander left the room.

“Suppose we did call the Watcher,” Spike said. “What would you tell him?”

“That we found this . . . guy, and he’s not human, but we don’t know what he is. And he needs help. And . . . he used to have wings. Maybe Giles could at least figure out what he is.”

Spike looked down at his feet for a few moments, then without looking up, said, “I think I know.”

“Please. Share with the class.”

“I think . . . I think he might be an angel,” Spike nearly whispered.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Xander squeaked, “An _angel_?”

Spike nodded, eyes still focused on his bare feet.

“As in ‘hark the herald’ and guardian and flitting around with halos and harps?”

“Yeah.”

“But— There are angels? For real?”

“You’re swilling Birra Moretti with a vampire, Xander. You nearly married a former vengeance demon. Your friends have supernatural powers, you’ve seen several of us resurrected, you met that bitch of a goddess . . . you fought the sodding First Evil! Why does an angel’s existence surprise you?”

Xander took several swallows of beer before he answered. “I don’t know. It’s just . . . weird. But how do you know that’s what he is? I mean, some demons and stuff have wings, right?”

“A few, yeah. But you’ve seen him yourself—does he seem very demonic to you?”

“No,” Xander admitted. “But then, neither do you, except when you’re fangy.”

Spike snorted. “Well, I’m no angel.” But he found himself secretly pleased that Xander viewed him as a man, rather than a monster. Not that he cared what Xander Harris thought of him.

“So, I repeat my question. What makes you think he’s an angel and not something else?”

“I bit him,” Spike replied bluntly. When Xander didn’t say anything in response, Spike finally turned his head to discover Xander frowning at him.

“You _bit_ him?”

“’S what vampires do, innit? It was ages ago. The Fifties. I found him and I was hungry and he smelled so bloody good—he still does; I can smell him now—and he _did_ something to me. Dunno what. Made me feel . . . soft.” Spike saw Xander raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t have the soul then. Wasn’t much for the touchy feely.”

“Except you kinda were, Spike. I remember. Okay, yeah, bloodthirsty and homicidal and sometimes really scary. But also . . . you got along with Mrs. Summers, didn’t you? And Dawn? And you fell for Buffy.”

Spike shifted uncomfortably. “I was evil.”

“Yeah. Except when you weren’t. And even when you were, well, I guess it was kind of sweet, if you look at it the right way. Like when you healed Drusilla.”

How many times could Spike be surprised by this man in one day? He found himself seeing Xander in an entirely fresh light. Well, maybe the boy had grown up a bit. Spike cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I didn’t care a whit about my prey. Usually. But this bloke . . . I found him and I wanted . . . well, I wanted to feed from him. Like I said, he smells brilliant. But I also wanted to put him out of his misery. Dunno why. Dunno why I cared whether he suffered.”

“So you bit him.”

“Yeah. But only took a mouthful. His blood burned me! Like holy water. It was horrible. Took me days to mend.”

“I take it that’s not normal.”

“Hardly.”

Xander finished off his beer and set the bottle on the stone floor. “Okay, let’s say he really is an angel. What’s he doing here? What the fuck happened to him?”

“Dunno, do I?”

Xander’s shoulders sagged. He leaned back against the sofa cushions and tipped his head back. His eye was closed. He hadn’t bothered to put the patch back on after they bathed the angel, and some of his skin was still a bit indented from the strap. Spike wondered again if the missing eye bothered him much, or if he’d grown used to it. 

“I’m beat,” Xander said finally. “I’m gonna turn in. I guess we can deal with this tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Can you relocate your ass? It’s on my bed.”

Spike sighed heavily. “If you try to sleep here you’ll fall on the floor and the thud will wake me up. Or you’ll be all cramped and sore tomorrow and even less use than usual. We’ll share the big bed.”

Xander peeled his eyelid open and rolled his head so he was looking at Spike. He seemed to be considering the offer, thinking about all its ramifications. “Okay,” he said finally. “But you better not hog the blankets.”

It was early yet for a vampire, but Spike was tired as well. Rescuing angels was exhausting, apparently. So as Xander washed up, Spike stripped again and climbed into bed. Xander didn’t say anything when he padded into the room clad only in a dry pair of boxers; he simply yawned and lay down beside Spike, then spent a few moments fluffing the pillow and arranging and rearranging himself. It was a big bed and they weren’t touching, but Spike could feel the man’s body heat collecting under the blankets and that was pleasant. Spike inhaled. Xander smelled nice, too. Not as nice as the angel, but clean and familiar. 

“Paul Newman.”

Spike opened his eyes and turned to look at Xander, whose face was inches from his. Xander was grinning slightly, his face illuminated by the greenish light of the bedside clock. “What?” Spike said.

“It’s been bugging me for a while.”

“What has?” Spike said, knowing he sounded exasperated.

“You’ve been reminding me of someone, and I couldn’t think who.”

“I’ve been reminding you of me, pillock. You’ve known me half your little life.”

Xander’s grin didn’t falter. “I know. But there was someone else. Just lately, since you showed up in London. And now I finally got it. I think because your hair’s all curled up now that the gel’s washed out. You remind me of Paul Newman, when he was young. Like in _Cool Hand Luke_. Kind of a . . . lovable rogue.”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “Lovable rogue?” he repeated.

“Yep,” Xander answered. And then, without another word, he rolled over, facing away from Spike. Soon he began to softly snore.

Spike spent a long time staring at the back of Xander’s head.

[Chapter Seven](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/285952.html)   


  



	8. Chapter 8

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 7 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h8zsc/)  
---  
  
  
  


**Chapter Seven**

Xander woke up next to a sleeping, naked vampire, while an angel waited for him in the next room. He knew Spike was naked because at some point during the night Spike had rolled himself half-free of the covers, and his bare skin was exposed all the way from his pale, long, toes, up his white flank and narrow waist, all the way to the tender nape of his neck. The blankets were bunched up against his back, revealing just a hint of rounded butt, and when Xander craned his neck he could see that Spike’s hand was curled near his slightly open mouth.

It wasn’t the strangest situation Xander had awakened to, or the most unpleasant.

With a silent sigh, Xander decided it was time to face the day. He got out of bed, taking care not to shake the mattress; he didn’t see any point in waking Spike up yet. Besides, Xander’s rather insistent morning wood was present, and Xander didn’t really want Spike to comment on that. Wondering whether vampires woke up hard, too, Xander wandered into the bathroom, where he pissed and washed up and brushed his teeth. His hair was a mess and he needed a shave, but those things could wait for later. Instead, he tiptoed into the bedroom to retrieve a pair of jeans, which he pulled on in the hallway. And then he walked into the other room.

Their visitor was still there, the blankets still tucked up to his chin. He must have been awake though, because he turned his head when Xander entered and he made a soft sound.

“Morning,” Xander said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Or afternoon, I guess. Did you sleep okay?” He received a nod in reply, and also a small smile. “Good,” Xander said. “Um . . . I guess we never introduced ourselves. My name’s Xander. Xander Harris. Our vampire roomie is Spike. And you . . . um . . . areyouanangel?” He said the last part really fast, and sort of quietly, as if he could pretend later that it wasn’t what he had said at all.

His guest’s forehead creased in concentration. Then he made another of his tiny sounds, this one sounding somewhat distressed, and he nodded again, just once.

“Oh,” Xander said, because how else did you respond to news like that? “I never met an angel before. Met all sorts of . . . interesting . . . people, but never an angel. I’m just an ordinary human, by the way. Don’t know if you can tell that. Just a guy. Nothing unusual about me. Well, except for a weird childhood and a missing eye.”

The angel looked concerned. He touched one of his own empty eye sockets with the stub of an arm.

“Yeah. My left eye’s been gone for years. The right one’s still there, though. The missing one . . . it kinda hurts sometimes. Aches. Yours too?”

The angel sighed and nodded.

“I’m sorry. It sucks. Look . . . I haven’t really talked about this yet with Spike, but if you want to, you can stay here with us. We’ll be here a few months I guess, and then we head back to London. But we can find a safe place for you then. If you want.”

Not only did the angel nod again, but this time he put the ends of his arms together and touched them to his forehead. Xander figured that was either a please or a thank you, or maybe a little of both. And then he saw that a few tears had leaked from the angel’s eyes, and the droplets were slowly tracking down the pale face and dampening the pillow. Had the angel been in that gutter all the years since Spike had first seen him? And maybe for a long time before that? Xander imagined for a moment what it would be like to be all alone like that, unable to see or walk or speak or even scratch your nose properly when it itched. All alone. The thought of it made his throat feel thick.

“So,” Xander said, after coughing a few times. “This won’t even be the strangest housing situation I’ve ever been in. But it’d really help if we at least knew your name. I’m trying to think if there’s some way you could tell it to us.”

But the angel grunted and shook his head, and Xander was hit with a terrible realization. “Do you _have_ a name?” he asked softly.

The angel shook his head.

“Fuck,” came a voice from behind Xander, making Xander jump. Spike was standing there, nude, his blue eyes troubled.

“He’s an angel,” Xander informed him.

“Know that. Heard you, didn’t I?”

“Oh. Sorry. I forget about the superhearing.” Xander refused to allow himself to be distracted by the nakedness, although as he’d learned last night during the group bathing, Spike naked was certainly distracting: all pale skin and lean, hard muscles, and a soft, uncut cock that Xander found himself aching to touch.

Spike didn’t seem aware of the effect he was having on Xander, or maybe he didn’t care. He came closer to the bed—close enough that Xander could have caressed him with practically no effort at all—and looked down at the angel. “No name, mate?”

The angel shook his head again.

Spike and Xander looked at each other for a moment, and then Xander said, “Um . . . do you want us to give you one?” Maybe angels just didn’t have names, or they went by symbols or something, like The Artist Formerly Known As Prince. 

But at Xander’s question, the angel’s mouth dropped open and he began to breathe very quickly. He made an entire series of pleading sounds, the whole time nodding almost frantically, as if he were afraid Xander might not understand. 

“Okay,” Xander said. “We’ll give you a name, I guess.” He looked up at Spike.

But Spike shrugged and crossed his arms on his chest. “Your stray, Xander. You name him.”

When Xander was nine years old, the Rosenbergs had taken him and Jesse along with Willow on a trip to a carnival in Goleta. Xander had eaten corn dogs and nachos and cotton candy, and he’d ridden all the rides, and then he’d played a game where you tossed ping-pong balls at things and he’d won a goldfish. He had taken his fish home in its plastic bag and proudly showed it to his parents, who grumbled but allowed him to keep it. His mother had even given him a cheap vase to use as a bowl. He had used his own allowance to buy food for the fish, which he had named Martin, for reasons he couldn’t remember now. Martin had lived for just under three weeks, and then one day Xander had come home from school to discover the fish floating belly-up. That was the last pet he had owned, and the only thing he had ever named.

Now, Xander considered the alternatives. There were obvious choices, like Gabriel and Michael and Raphael, but then those were sort of already taken. And it didn’t seem right to call a celestial being Bob or Steve or Jeff or something like that. They had found the angel in Venice—maybe he should have an Italian name. But suddenly Xander couldn’t think of any except Mario and Luigi, and . . . well . . . no.

“Get on with it already,” Spike said, while the angel waited expectantly.

“Hey, naming’s a big responsibility. Give me a few.”

Spike snorted. “You’ll come up with something bloody stupid anyhow. Name him after a tree or an emerald city or summat.”

“Pot kettle, _Spike_.”

Spike made a sour face but didn’t respond.

Xander thought some more, still trying to ignore the proximity of naked Spike. But nothing came to mind; at least nothing that felt right. Finally, he looked up again. “What’s your middle name?” he asked Spike.

“Why?” Spike replied suspiciously.

“’Cause maybe it’ll make a good choice.”

“What kind of berk names an angel after a demon?”

“A berk whose own middle name is Lavelle. Besides, you may be a demon but you’re a champion, right? I figure there’s worse people to be named after.”

Spike gave him a really odd look and then looked away as if to hide the smile that was tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“So?” Xander asked. “Middle name? Unless it’s something stuffy and British. Or one of those names that used to be for boys but now only girls get, like Evelyn or Beverly. I refuse to name a guy Beverly.”

Spike mumbled something.

“What? Karen? I said no girl names,” said Xander.

Spike shook his head. “Caron. C-A-R-O-N. My mum’s grandfather’s name. Old git was Welsh.”

Xander repeated the name a few times, tasting it. “Does it mean something?”

“Yeah. Beloved.” Spike sighed.

“Oh.” Xander set his hand on the angel’s shoulder. “Is that okay with you? Caron?”

The angel nodded enthusiastically. And then, to Xander’s surprise, he bent his neck a little and placed a hot, dry kiss on Xander’s forearm. He was crying again, too, but his face—which really was beautiful—almost glowed with joy. Xander felt a satisfied little flutter in his chest. Maybe he wasn’t the smartest guy around, or the strongest or the bravest, and he wasn’t all that useful for many things, but he’d just made an angel happy.

Xander gave Caron’s shoulder a light squeeze. “Okay then. Caron it is. Is there anything I can get you? Something I can do for you?”

Caron shook his head and kissed Xander’s arm again. He looked better, Xander thought. Cleaner, of course, but also maybe a little less thin. Which was strange, because he hadn’t eaten anything. Maybe it was just that he was momentarily comfortable and safe. Xander knew from personal experience that even a short break went a long way towards improving someone’s outlook and lending him strength, even if he knew that more trouble lay ahead.

“We’ve some things to discuss,” Spike said to Xander. “Matters other than heavenly visitations.”

Xander nodded and stood. “Yeah, okay.” To Caron he added, “You’ll be okay, just kinda hanging out here?”

Caron nodded and made a small sound that Xander understood meant yes. Xander felt a little guilty, just walking out on him, but then he figured the poor guy had probably spent a whole lot of time alone over the years, just huddled somewhere, and maybe some quiet time in a clean and comfy bed wasn’t so bad in comparison. He started to leave the room, but paused when he realized that Spike was standing at the bedside, fiddling with the alarm clock. That left his backside facing Xander and, well, it was a very diverting backside. Xander decided that he could stare a little without encountering too much grief.

Only when music began to play did Xander realize that Spike had been turning on the clock’s radio. It was soft music, something classical with violins and other instruments Xander couldn’t identify. Not exactly Spike’s taste, he would have guessed. But Spike seemed satisfied with his choice, turning to face Caron. “Nice, yeah?”

Caron made his affirmative noise and smiled.

Spike walked right by Xander, ignoring the way Xander’s mouth was hanging open.

***

“I’ll need you to continue the charade,” Spike announced. Xander had showered and shaved and put on clean clothes, and while he did so Spike had got dressed too. Now they sat at the kitchen table. Spike was cradling a bowl of warmish blood in his hands, while Xander ate cold leftover pizza.

“I always suck at that game. Now, Willow, she can guess _Citizen Kane_ while you’re still trying to figure out how to do an impression of Orson Welles on a sled, but me—”

“Not the game, berk.”

Xander grinned. “I know. What exactly is it you want me to pretend, Spike?”

Spike didn’t meet his eye. “What we told Paolo yesterday. That you’re my . . . mine.”

If Spike hadn’t looked so embarrassed, Xander might have suspected that this was all part of some scheme to humiliate Xander. Even with the way Spike was chewing at his lip and fidgeting with the bowl edge, Xander briefly considered accusing him of evil motives. Instead, though, he shrugged. “Okay. But how come?”

Spike shot him another surprised look—he’d been doing that a lot lately—and relaxed a little. “It might get us more cooperation. Demons don’t work closely with humans often, not unless there’s some benefit to the demon. Like shagging.”

“Got it. Humans with benefits.”

“The locals will be less suspicious of us this way. They’ll reckon I’m acting for the benefit of my pet . . . and vice versa.”

There was a time when Xander would have been very disturbed at the idea of anyone thinking that he and Spike were an item of any kind, let alone thinking that he was Spike’s . . . kept human. But Xander had grown up. What did he care what anyone thought? It wasn’t as if Xander hadn’t shared a bed with a demon or two for real; plus, gaining the protection of William the Bloody was probably a good thing. “Okay,” Xander said again. “Does this mean I wear your jacket and you give me your class ring? Or . . . is there some kind of gross vampire marking ceremony or something?”

Spike tilted his head and gave Xander a searching look, as if Xander were something he’d found under a microscope and he wasn’t certain yet whether the thing was toxic. Xander didn’t mind—he’d been at the receiving end of that look before. He peeled a piece of bell pepper from his slice of pizza and dropped it onto his plate. 

“Why aren’t you pitching a fit over this?” Spike finally asked.

“Did you want me to?” answered Xander with his mouth full.

“Not especially. But I reckoned you would.”

“Well, I still can if you’re feeling ripped off.” Xander swallowed and then swigged a mouthful of Coke. “Look, it’s not a big deal. I’ve dated plenty of demons before. Male ones even—”

“So you weren’t taking the piss about being gay.”

“I’m bi. An equal opportunity kind of guy, which you would have thought would improve my chances of seriously hooking up with someone, but it really hasn’t. If people think we’re together, fine. Just as long as I don’t have to dress up in bondage gear and call you master, ’cause that’s never gonna happen.” He pointed his crust at Spike to emphasize the point.

Spike grabbed the crust and crammed it in his own mouth. “Right then,” he said, spraying crumbs. “We’ll skip the collar and the cock cage. But you follow my lead, yeah?”

Spike’s mention of a cock cage had done funny things to Xander’s throat, and he didn’t quite trust himself to speak. He nodded instead. Spike dipped the end of the crust into his bowl of blood and took another bite. By the time he had eaten it all, Xander could talk again. “So do you actually have a plan in mind for when we meet this guy tonight?”

“No. But I’ll manage.”

“Okay,” Xander responded, because he wasn’t exactly Mr. Planning Guy himself. “Then to change topics completely, what do you want to do about Caron?”

“Do?”

“Do. We have a mangled angel, Spike. We should do _something_.”

“Already have. Got him out of the gutter and cleaned him up. Gave him someplace safe to stay. A name. I reckon that’s more than anyone’s done for him in ages.”

Xander made a sour face. “Maybe. But it’s not much.”

“Can’t solve all the world’s problems, mate.”

“I know.” But then Xander stood, pushing his chair back with a loud scrape. “But I can solve some of them, maybe. I’m gonna go out for a little while, okay?”

“Fine. Don’t get eaten.”

Xander left Spike at the table. He found his shoes in the living room and put them on, then peeked in on Caron, who looked as if he might be asleep. Taking care not to slam the door, he left the flat.

Xander had kept his eye open as they’d headed to St. Mark’s the previous evening. Although that wouldn’t preclude him from getting lost again, he had a vague idea of the layout in the immediate vicinity of their place. He’d found a grocery store, for instance, and he stopped there now to pick up a few things, because a guy couldn’t live on pizza alone. With his yellow Billa bag tucked on one arm, he strolled past crowds of tourists for another couple of blocks, passing a bakery that smelled wonderful and had an enticing window display of marzipan shapes and candied clementines, and then ducking into what appeared to be a sort of sundries store.

“Buongiorno,” called the mustached man behind the counter as Xander entered.

Xander mumbled a greeting back. The shop sold stuffed animals and the wheeled carts people used for grocery shopping and it sold pots and pans and giant spoons. And on one shelf an array of small appliances was displayed. Xander surveyed his options, which were limited, and made a decision. He carried the box to the counter. “Grazie,” he said when the man with the mustache took his Euros.

Xander’s hands were now full, which made negotiating the crowded street a little challenging. It also meant that when he passed the shop with the display of anatomically correct pastas, he couldn’t duck in and buy a package, which was a little disappointing. Later, he promised himself. Maybe he’d get noodles shaped like gondolas, too.

When he got back to the apartment, Spike had moved into the living room and was watching something on TV. He grunted as Xander walked by on his way to the kitchen , where he set his purchases on the table. He put the groceries away first, then unpacked the big box, getting little flecks of packing foam everywhere. He was just pushing the plug into the outlet when Spike wandered in.

“What’s that?” Spike asked.

“It’s a microwave, Spike. At least try to enter the second half of the twentieth century.”

“Know what it is, tosser. Just wondering why you felt the need to spend the Council’s dosh on it. You think cold leftover pizza is going to kill you?”

“Nope.” Xander patted the top of the microwave in satisfaction. “But the faces you’ve been making over cold blood might.” And then, smile on his face, he brushed past Spike and towards the hallway.

[Chapter Eight](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/286575.html)   


  



	9. Chapter 9

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 8 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h9gtp/)  
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**Chapter Eight**

It was just a black box with a window. Spike had seen perhaps hundreds very like it; this one was unique only in that the words over the little buttons were in Italian. But he couldn’t stop staring at the bloody thing.

He used to pay very little attention to Xander Harris, save for those occasions when the boy was potentially useful or entertaining. But he had reckoned that he knew the boy: not especially bright, carrying a heavy load of resentment, sometimes eager as an untrained puppy. All clumsy movements and horrible clothing, and with a young man’s usual cloud of testosterone floating about his head. 

Now, though. Now Xander had gracefully accepted the pretense of being Spike’s pet. He’d outed himself without apologies or embarrassment. He’d actually complimented Spike—called him a hero! And with very little explanation he’d bought Spike a microwave to heat his blood, which meant Xander had noticed that Spike was drinking the stuff cold, and he had realized that cold blood tasted like shite, and he had cared enough to do something about it.

Spike realized he didn’t know Xander Harris at all—but he just might enjoy trying to suss him out.

And then Spike sighed at himself. There were several matters of much more pressing concern now, and he would be better off if he would focus on them instead. Still, Spike took a moment to run a hand over the smooth black surface and he smiled to himself, because he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had given him a gift.

“Right then,” Spike said when he entered the living room. 

Xander was propped on the sofa, browsing a tourism leaflet that had been in the flat when they moved in. He looked up at Spike. “Did you know some worker got killed by those metal statues on top of St. Mark’s way back in the 1700s? I guess he didn’t notice it was time for them to ring the bell, and they swung him right off the roof.”

“That’s a waste of a perfectly good human,” Spike said, collapsing onto the cushion beside him.

“I didn’t even notice the metal guys when we were there. I want to go back.”

“We’re not here to be tourists, Xander.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Xander tossed the leaflet aside. “So when do we meet this demon nark?”

“Two hours. And remember—”

“I’m your pet and I keep my lips zipped. I’ll remember.”

Spike grinned and ruffled Xander’s somewhat shaggy hair. “Good boy.”

Xander stuck out his tongue and panted like a dog. Then his face grew more serious. “Do you think we should tell HQ about Caron?”

Spike felt a strange sense of dismay at the thought of losing the angel. He tried to hide it with a shrug. “Can if you like. But I doubt they can do much more for him than we can.”

“You’re probably right. Let’s just see if we get any good info tonight, I guess.”

That settled, Xander clicked the telly on and they sat in silence for a long time, watching American cops babble at each other in poorly synced Italian. But then Xander must have grown bored, because he turned down the sound and started making up dialog of his own, and that was a bit of fun so Spike joined in, and soon they were both snorting with laughter. In fact, Xander laughed so hard that he actually fell off the sofa, and he sprawled on the cold floor, gasping for breath. Spike threw a pillow at him, and it bounced off Xander’s stomach. Xander picked it up and tossed it back, missing Spike by several inches.

“Nice aim.”

“Crappy depth perception.”

Spike stood and stretched. “Let’s go.”

“Fine. But I wanna say goodbye to Caron first.”

So Spike trailed him into the smaller bedroom. Caron turned his head when they entered, and he greeted them with a smile and a small grunt. He looked loads better, Spike thought, and smelled so delicious that Spike caught himself licking his lips. Blood like holy water, he reminded himself.

“Hey,” said Xander. “We have to go, um, run an errand. We’ll be back in a while, okay?”

Caron nodded.

“Can we bring you anything back?”

The angel looked surprised and then shook his head. Xander said goodbye to him and Spike mumbled something as well, and then they left.

***

As it turned out, the not-so-simple man was a woman. Or a female, at any rate, because even in the soft light of the elegant little restaurant it was immediately obvious that Signora Bennu was not human. She was tiny—an inch or two short of five feet tall and with a build that made Buffy look like a linebacker. Her hair was iridescent black and was braided in careful cornrows; her bright, unblinking eyes had a strange orange tint; and instead of a nose she had a long, sharp beak. Her skin was the color of old leather. She wore a tight, sleeveless sheath dress of some shiny brown material, and a cascade of black and white feathers covered her shoulders and upper back. Spike couldn’t make out whether that was a capelet of some sort or an actual part of her body.

“Please. Sit down,” she said, gesturing at a table near the back of the restaurant. Spike had expected her voice to be cackling or shrieky, like a parrot’s, but instead it was low and trilling in a way that tickled his spine pleasantly. She had just a trace of an exotic accent as well. He and Xander exchanged quick glances and then they sat.

Signora Bennu seated herself opposite them. A waiter immediately scurried over and she had a long conversation with him in Italian. Spike took the opportunity to look around. A young man in a suit—one of the waiters, most likely—had met them at the internet bar and brought them here. L’Uccello Nero contained only a half dozen tables inside and three more in a little outdoor courtyard. The ceiling was low, the walls were hung with expensive tapestries of flowers and birds, and the other diners spoke in hushed tones. Spike and Xander were both underdressed for the place, and Spike could sense Xander fidgeting uncomfortably beside him.

Despite her diminutive stature, Signora Bennu managed to look down her long beak at the two of them. Spike couldn’t tell if she approved of what she saw. But when the waiter returned a moment later with a bottle of wine, she poured a bit in a glass, sniffed at it, and nodded. The waiter filled Xander’s and Spike’s glasses, but not hers. Spike wasn’t sure whether she could manage drinking from a glass anyway.

“Paolo tells me you have some questions.” Signora Bennu said.

“Yeah. A few. You see—”

“Please. Let us enjoy some light conversation and a meal first.”

Spike wasn’t especially thrilled to drag things out, but decided not to argue. He took a sip of his wine. “That’s brilliant,” he couldn’t help exclaiming, because it was delicious.

The signora’s hard edges seemed to soften just a bit and she nodded regally. “Thank you. It is from my own estate in Gorizia.”

Xander didn’t say anything, but when he tasted his own wine and made a small appreciative sound, Signora Bennu’s attention turned to him. “You are fully human, are you not?” she asked.

Xander glanced at Spike before answering. “Yep. Uh—yes, ma’am. At least, as far as I know.”

“And you belong to this vampire?”

Xander didn’t even pause. “I’m his.”

Spike ignored the tiny frisson those simple words caused along his skin, reminding himself that it was a lie.

The signora regarded Xander closely. “Did he force you to submit to him? Are you under a thrall?”

“No! No forcing, and I swear I haven’t eaten a single bug since we . . . hooked up.”

Spike thought he caught a momentary glitter of amusement in her eyes. He clapped a hand possessively onto Xander’s knee. “Don’t believe in that thrall rubbish. It’s . . . the last resort of a desperate demon, most of the time. Don’t need mojo for my boy to want me.”

“I see,” she responded. “So this is a voluntary arrangement. Mr. Harris, why have you allowed yourself to be kept by this vampire?”

Xander took a swallow of wine before he answered. “Because . . . well, look at him! He’s sexy as hell. And he’s strong and brave and loyal and . . . and kinda funny.” He pointed at his right eye. “He saved me, kept me from being completely blinded. He saved the world, in fact. I’d say that makes for a pretty good catch, fangs or not.”

 _More necessary lies_ , Spike told himself.

But Signora Bennu looked skeptical. “You do not smell of one another.”

Xander wrinkled his nose slightly and Spike intervened. “We’ve been busy. But I swear to you, he shares my bed.”

Xander nodded in agreement with what was, after all, an accurate statement. Signora Bennu squinted at them. Spike was about to ask her why she sodding cared whether they were shagging anyway, when Xander grabbed Spike’s head with both hands, tugged him closer, and planted soft lips on Spike’s.

Spike’s first instinct was to pull away. But he remembered in time that their informant demon was watching, judging. And instead of breaking the kiss Spike deepened it, plunging his tongue into Xander’s mouth and grasping handfuls of Xander’s hair. Xander was warm and he tasted like good wine. His cheeks were slightly rough with stubble, creating a bit of lovely friction against Spike’s perpetually beardless skin. Xander let go of Spike’s head and instead lay his hands on Spike’s shoulders, kneading slightly with his fingertips as if he were a cat.

Spike became aware that Signora Bennu was discretely clearing her throat, and he reluctantly untangled his fingers and pulled his head away from Xander’s. Xander was breathing hard and his cheeks were flushed. He looked like someone who had bitten into a chocolate expecting a hazelnut center and ended up with jalapeno instead. “Oh,” he said softly.

“All right. I am convinced,” the signora said.

Spike lifted an eyebrow. “You certain? I could bend him over the table if you need more persuasion, but—”

The waiter appeared and set a bowl in front of each of them. Spike’s smelled lovely—chunks of spiced meat floating in fragrant warm blood. Xander had been given black risotto, but he was looking instead at the signora’s entree and his face had gone slightly pale. The signora frowned at her dish, which contained a writhing, wriggling mass. Maggots and mealworms, Spike believed.

“Oh, this will not do at all,” she said angrily and stood. “Pardon me for just a moment. But please, begin eating your own meals while I am gone.” She took her bowl and headed back, into the kitchen, which is when Spike realized she owned the restaurant.

“I will never again complain that your diet is gross,” Xander said. He peered suspiciously at his own food.

So the boy meant to pretend they hadn’t kissed. Fine, Spike thought, and took a bite of his stew. It tasted even better than it smelled. The blood was something exotic.

After a few experimental pokes with a fork, Xander tasted his risotto. While his first forkful was very small, he immediately followed up with several hearty mouthfuls. “This is great!” he enthused, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

Spike decided to inform him later that the risotto’s color came from squid ink.

“I apologize,” Signora Bennu said when she returned with a new bowl. She sat down again and arranged her napkin on her lap. Her dish once again contained mealworms and maggots, but now thick beetle grubs had been added, as well as a few tiny slugs. “My chef allowed his assistant to prepare my meal, and I’m afraid the assistant is quite new. I hope your dishes are satisfactory?”

“’T’s brilliant,” Spike responded. “Can’t quite place it, though.”

It was difficult to read her expressions but she might have attempted a smile. “Jackal.”

Spike blinked at her. “Jackal?”

She scooped a spoonful of bugs into her mouth, somehow managing to crunch them delicately. “Anubis was the god of the afterlife, the protector of the dead. He weighed souls to dictate their fate. I thought it quite appropriate for you. And, I have been told, jackal is quite tasty.”

“Erm . . . it is,” Spike said, and ate some more.

They chatted about nothing important as they continued their meals. Signora Bennu asked a few questions about the USA, which she had never visited, and recommended some shops in Venice where they could find good food and wine. She told Xander which particular fishmongers he should visit at the Rialto market, should he fancy fresh tuna. And she told him to be certain to tour the Doge’s palace, where he could get a good conception of the city’s long history.

After the waiter had cleared away the empty bowls and poured from a fresh bottle of wine—this one sweeter than the first but equally tasty—the signora patted her napkin at the corners of her beak and tilted her head slightly. “Would you care for some coffee, perhaps?”

Spike shook his head. “Nah. Keeps me up all night.”

“Very well. Signor William—”

“Spike. Please.”

“Signor Spike, what are these questions you have for me?”

He pushed his chair slightly back. “We’ve heard rumors about il ministro dei demoni. Heard that the bloke’s not doing his job properly. We’ve come to investigate.”

“Why?”

“Because—a bright bird like you—erm, no offense—I expect you know that my boy is a close mate of the Slayer. The head Chosen One, I mean.”

“I was aware of that. And I have been wondering why an associate of a vampire slayer would permit himself to belong to a vampire, and why he would concern himself so closely in demonic matters, rather than simply trying to kill demons.”

“He told you already why me.” Spike grinned. “Irresistible, yeah? And as for the rest, my boy has come to appreciate that not all demons need murdering. He and I—and the bloody Watcher’s Council, for that matter—are satisfied with the way things have been in Venice for ages. Humans and non-humans coexisting peacefully for mutual benefit. We’d like things to remain that way.”

She thought this over for a few moments, and then her gaze shifted to one of the tapestries on the wall, an ancient-looking one with the brightly embroidered flowers still vivid. “Spike, I have run L’Ucello Nero for a very long time. I cater to humans and demons alike, often with quite exotic tastes, but I have always prided myself on a respectable establishment. My food is always top quality, the atmosphere is peaceful and refined, and I do not tolerate disrespect of anyone, either from my staff or from my customers. Many of my clients travel quite far to visit me, and many visit me year after year. Perhaps some might consider me arrogant but I am very proud of my work.”

“As you should be,” Spike said, and Xander nodded his agreement.

“Thank you. I also am satisfied with the manner in which human-demonic business is undertaken in Venezia. It has not always been so.”

Spike wondered just how old the signora was, but he didn’t ask. “I understand,” he said. “Hasn’t always been peaceful here, and is rarely peaceful elsewhere.”

“Precisely. For many years, Venezia has been . . . special. Unique. I have been happier here than I have been since I was forced to leave my homeland.” She sighed. “But recently, there have been changes. Demons have begun preying on humans and one another in some parts of the city. Oh, not on a large scale. In fact, I believe the troubles stem primarily from only a few miscreants. But matters have been getting gradually worse, and despite pleas from many respected members of the demon community, il ministro has done nothing. In fact,” her voice dropped to a near-whisper, “there are some who believe he is complicit in the violent behavior.”

“Right. So who are the bad guys and why’s the old bloke egging them on?”

“I don’t know the answer to your second question. But as to the first . . . I believe it has been Ulorar for the most part. Perhaps some others as well, but the Ulorar appear to be leading.”

Spike whistled softly. “Ulorar are nasty gits. Even vamps won’t have anything to do with them. Never known one who was anything but awful. I’m surprised they’re allowed in the city at all.”

“They were not, until recently. But now there are several, and they have been engaging in unacceptable behavior. Just last week one of my long-term customers. Signor Ricciutelli, was grievously injured by a pair of Ulorar. He is a Vlamnech, a peaceful man and quite elderly as well. It is fortunate he wasn’t killed; a large tour group happened to turn the corner just as he was being attacked and the assailants fled. Signor Ricciutelli made a formal complaint with il ministro, but nothing has been done. And that is just one example. There have been incidents everywhere in Venezia. Everywhere except Santa Croce and Cannaregio. In those sestieri alone, all has been quiet as usual.”

“Why?”

“I do not know.”

Spike emptied his wineglass. “Have you any more information that can help us?”

She shook her head. “No. Nothing I can think of.” Then she reached across the table and set one of her tiny hands atop his. “But I—and the rest of the law-abiding demon community—should be very grateful if this violence could be ended.”

“We’ll do our best,” Spike said, feeling a bit like the hero in a Western and rather regretting that he didn’t have a hat to tip.

Everyone stood. But before they left, Xander held out a scrap of paper on which he’d hastily scribbled some numbers. “It’s my cell phone. I guess ancient vampires don’t believe in ‘em. But if you think of anything else, give us a call, okay?”

“Not ancient,” Spike grumbled as Signora Bennu nodded at Xander and took the paper. She walked them to the door.

“Thanks for dinner,” Xander said. “It’s the best I’ve had in about a million years.”

“Yeah, cheers. Lovely meal.”

She reached up to set her hand on Spike’s shoulder. It was so light he could barely feel it. “It has been my pleasure. Please come visit me again. Oh, and I have a gift for you both.” 

Two presents in one day. Spike just hoped it wasn’t another microwave.

But the signora reached one hand back and plucked a pure white feather from her shoulder. She handed it to Spike, who stared at it, bemused.

“Keep it,” she said. “Perhaps it will bring you good fortune.”

Spike decided they could use all the luck they could get. “Ta,” he said. As he stood there uncertainly for a moment, Xander took the feather from him and tucked it into his wallet, which he then jammed back into the rear pocket of his jeans.  
[  
Chapter Nine](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/286936.html)  


 

 

  



	10. Chapter 10

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 9 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001haddf/)  
---  
  
  
  


**Chapter Nine**

Spike said he wanted to take a roundabout way back to the apartment, sort of a quick recon now that they had some clue what they were looking for. Xander agreed, partly because he was still playing the more or less dutiful pet, partly because he wanted to walk off a little of that meal—and maybe find some gelato—and partly because he wasn’t all that eager to return home. He did want to check on Caron, but going home meant being in private with Spike, and that meant maybe discussing The Kiss.

That’s how he was thinking of it as he ambled along at Spike’s side, weaving their way through the evening crowds, making sure not to get separated this time. The Kiss, with capital letters. Xander had kissed Spike on impulse, because he thought it might be an effective way to prove they were really an item. He hadn’t exactly expected that the experience would be awful, but he also hadn’t imagined how very not-awful it was. It was, in fact, the polar opposite of awful. The Kiss had made his blood rush and his heart thrum, it had made his toes curl and his dick twitch. The Kiss had made him want to swoon, to lay back in Spike’s arms like some girl in a ’40s movie, or maybe to take Spike in his arms and squish him tight, to tear off the vampire’s clothing and fuck the snark right out of him. 

And maybe Spike was just a really good actor, but Xander had kind of got the idea that Spike was into The Kiss too. 

The way Xander figured it, there were two possibilities. One was that Spike had been acting, that The Kiss was no big deal to him. And if that was the case, when they got home he might tease Xander over initiating it. Hell, he could probably smell how turned on Xander had been, and wouldn’t that be great? Spike had enjoyed trying to bait Xander over sex earlier, but now that he knew Xander really was bi, and that Xander’s feelings towards Spike weren’t nearly as platonic as they used to be, how would Spike react? Maybe he’d be so upset he’d leave, or demand a new partner, or . . . who knew. No good outcomes there.

The other possibility was that The Kiss had affected Spike the same way it had Xander. Xander didn’t really know much about Spike’s sexual preferences, but the vampire hadn’t hesitated to let people think he was in a gay relationship with a human, so that was a good sign. Homophobic snits didn’t seem likely. But if Spike _had_ been zapped by The Kiss, too, Xander wasn’t sure what to make of that. Were either of them willing for another Kiss—or maybe more? If they were, how stupid an idea was it? Would they keep it secret, and if not, how would the others react?

Xander’s head hurt.

When Spike came to an abrupt halt, Xander didn’t notice soon enough and he plowed into the vampire’s back, nearly sending them both tumbling to the ground. “Watch out, you great oaf!” Spike snarled at him.

“Sorry. But you didn’t have to put on the brakes so suddenly.”

“This is bollocks.”

“I said I was sorry. I’ll be more careful, okay?”

Spike shook his head. “I mean this….” He waved a hand around vaguely. “Just wandering about. I haven’t seen anything more threatening than that group of old biddies from Texas.”

“The ones with the poky walking sticks? They were pretty scary.”

“We’ll not find answers amongst the scarves and masks and snowglobes. Let’s go back to the flat and think about this.”

“Yeah, fine. As long as I get an ice cream on the way.”

Xander did get an ice cream—malaga, which turned out to be rum raisin and was very tasty. To his surprise, Spike ordered a cone for himself as well. “Didn’t know vamps were ice cream fans,” Xander said, trying not to notice the way the sharp pink tongue was running along the edge of the treat.

Spike grinned. “It’s arancia rossa, innit? Blood orange.”

Xander snorted out a laugh.

***

Caron was sitting up in bed, his back propped against a pillow. When Xander and Spike entered his room, he gave them a smile so dazzling that Xander’s breath caught in his throat. Spike stumbled back a pace, bumping into the wall. “You okay?” Xander asked Spike.

“Yeah. Just . . . he smells so bloody good!”

Caron didn’t seem disturbed by that; his smile didn’t dim at all. Xander couldn’t smell anything special about the angel, but he sure _looked_ good, even mangled as he was and with the bad haircut Xander had given him. His frame had filled out quite a bit since the previous evening, and although his skin was still pale as milk, Xander could have sworn it had a subtle glow as if Caron had been lightly dusted with fluorescent powder.

“Sorry we were gone so long,” Xander said, walking to the bedside while Spike kept his distance. “Is everything good with you?”

Caron nodded, grinned like a delighted child, and said, “Yes.”

Xander’s knees went a little wobbly and he had to grab the mattress for support. He glanced over at Spike, harboring the wild idea that maybe the vampire had mastered the art of ventriloquism, but Spike looked as shocked as Xander felt. Spike, however, recovered slightly faster. “You’re talking!” he said accusingly.

“Yes,” Caron repeated and opened his mouth wide, showing a perfectly good tongue: pink and damp and slightly curled.

“You can grow stuff back?” Xander asked.

“I . . . I don’t know.” Caron’s voice was soft and hesitant. He had the accent of an American who’d lived a long time in England, or maybe a Brit who’d been stranded in the States.  “I never— When I woke up today I could speak.”

Spike stalked forward, but slowly, as if uncertain whether something might jump out at him. He stopped when he was shoulder to shoulder with Xander. “Any other bits grow back?”

“No,” said Caron a little sadly. “I’m sorry. I don’t . . . I don’t really understand.”

“Makes three of us, mate.”

There was a long silence after that. Now Caron looked unhappy, and it occurred to Xander that the angel might be upset over their confusion. And being upset wasn’t right, not just then. The poor guy deserved to celebrate his healing. Plus, he could now answer a lot of questions, which was a really big plus.

“Tell you what,” Xander said a little loudly. “How about if I get us something to drink and then we can settle in for a big Exposition Fest. Spike, blood or beer?”

“Beer,” Spike replied.

“And you, Caron? Something to drink?”

“I don’t . . . I’ve never . . .” Caron licked his bottom lip. “I’ve never tried to drink.”

“Wanna give it a shot?”

Caron frowned as he thought about this, and then he nodded slowly. “Yes. Please.”

As he walked into the kitchen, Xander decided that beer was probably not the best choice for someone’s first liquid. Who knew what an angel’s tolerance for alcohol was? So he popped open bottles for himself and Spike but poured a simple glass of cool water for Caron. He returned to the bedroom and handed a beer to Spike, then set his own on the bedside table. He had to hold the glass for Caron, of course. “Here you go,” he said, touching the glass to Caron’s lips.

Caron allowed a little water to be tilted into his mouth. His eyebrows raised high and he coughed, and some of the water dribbled down his chin. But he didn’t try to move his head away. 

“You want more?” Xander asked.

“Yes! Please.”

So Xander slowly poured some water down Caron’s throat, and Caron swallowed carefully. Xander took the glass away after a few mouthfuls.

“It’s so good,” said Caron. “Sweet and soft and cool. Thank you.”

Xander had never seen anyone make such a big deal over a little water, but Caron’s delight made him feel good. He put the glass down and took a sip of his own beer. He was no stranger to the stuff, but he suddenly noticed how complex the flavor was, how it was sweet and bitter at once, and how the bubbles tickled a little as they went down his throat. Spike must have had a similar experience, because he was staring at his bottle with wonder.

Xander sat on the edge of the mattress. After a moment’s hesitation, Spike sat on the opposite side. “Are you up to answering questions?” Xander asked Caron.

“Yes. I’ll try. But . . . may I ask as well?”

“Sure! Of course.” Xander felt like an ass. Naturally the angel would have plenty of blanks he wanted filled in, too.

“Thank you,” Caron said, and he patted Xander’s leg lightly with his stump of an arm. Which might have kind of creeped Xander out, except it didn’t. The pats felt nice, like a hug from an old friend. Caron tilted his head slightly. “Why . . . why are you being so kind to me?”

“We haven’t really done that much. And you needed help. We do that, sort of. Help people.”

“But . . . I’m not a real person,” Caron said sorrowfully. “Not like you. And…and Spike? I thought . . . vampires . . .  But you’re different. Why?”

Spike shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve a soul,” he muttered.

“Oh! And you . . . you were a good man, weren’t you?”

“He still is,” Xander said before he could stop himself. Spike blinked at him, astonished, and Xander had to look away.

Caron was smiling. “You are both good men, I think. All these years, nobody else has . . .  Thank you.” But then his face grew serious. “And I’m sorry, Spike.”

“For what?” Spike asked warily.

“When you bit me . . .  You were being gentle and I didn’t know my blood would hurt you.”

“Couldn’t have told me even if you did know,” Spike replied. “And I wasn’t . . .  I meant to kill you, you know.”

“I think it would have been a good way to die. Not . . . not alone, you see.”

Spike did see, Xander thought, because the vampire closed his eyes tightly and nodded. Xander understood, too. He never had been all that thrilled with the concept of dying, but what really terrified him was the idea of being all alone and unloved when the end came.

Spike sniffed loudly and cleared his throat. “Time for you to give answers, mate. What happened to you?”

“I don’t know exactly. I was . . . somewhere else. Somewhere nice. Nothing hurt and there was music, I think, and others like me.” He sighed. “I had wings.”

“Was it heaven?” Xander asked, remembering the words Buffy had sung when he invoked the show-tunes demon.

“I don’t know what it was called. I don’t have the words. But it was a good place. And then . . .” Caron’s face went more gaunt and pale and he rubbed at it with his arm stubs. “He took me away,” he whispered.

“Who did?” Spike demanded, but Caron looked as if he might cry, and Xander shot Spike a dirty look. Spike rolled his eyes but softened his voice. “Look, we’ve all been through some bad bits. Perhaps talking about it will ease the pain.”

“I’m sorry,” said Caron. “I’ll try. He was . . . a magician, maybe. A wizard. He took me away and imprisoned me in stone. I don’t know how. It was—  I couldn’t see or hear or move, and . . . and then he carved the stone. Chipped away until the stone looked like me. Was me. All these people would come and tell him what a wonderful artist he was, how skilled he was to create such a thing, but he didn’t create me at all. He simply trapped me in marble.”

Xander tried to make sense of this, but apparently Spike caught on because he whistled, low and long. “He used his mojo to make you into a statue.”

“Yes. But a statue can’t think, or feel, and I could. God, I felt it all: the sharp pain of his metal tools, and then the warm hands that stroked me when I was complete. And I wanted to cry, to beg for freedom, or at least to be cared for, cared about. To be given a name! But I couldn’t speak or move. I could hear them—my hearing worked once he had completed me—and they admired my beauty and his talent, but none of them saw that I was _real_.”

Xander patted Caron’s shoulder and Caron responded by sighing and leaning his head into Xander’s arm. “What about the wizard?” Xander asked. “Did he know you were in there?”

“Maybe. He spoke to me, now and then. But not . . .  He spoke to me the way a man might talk to his dog or his cat as he worked, more to hear the sound of his own words than because the animal would understand him. And then he sold me.”

Caron paused as if to gather his thoughts, and both Spike and Xander took long draws from their beer bottles. Xander was wishing he had something stronger. Then he put his drink down and held the glass for Caron again; Caron took a few grateful sips. “My new owner kept me in his garden. It wasn’t so bad. I could feel the sun's warmth during the day, and the breezes and the rain. And I could hear the birds, listen to people chatting as they worked. One girl—I think she was a servant—she would stop when she walked by me, and she would rub my penis and whisper a prayer for a child. And she had a child, eventually—children. But then she got old, and my owner died, and there were others. Many others, I think. It was hard to keep track.”

Xander tried to imagine what those years must have been like, blind and immobile, trying to gather small crumbs of comfort from a bit of birdsong or a few rays of sunshine. But Xander really couldn’t imagine it, and he figured that made him very lucky. His hand was still on Caron’s shoulder, and Caron still leaned his head against him; and at least that was some small thing Xander could offer the angel, a tiny bit of something good. Maybe Spike was feeling the same way, because his hand settled on Caron’s other shoulder, which made Caron smile for a moment before continuing his story.

“After a while there was . . . there was nobody. I was alone in the gardens and nobody came by anymore. Not for a long time. Then one day I heard voices and I was happy. But these voices were loud and the men who came into the garden smelled of blood and shit and death. I heard them shouting, heard things smashing. And then . . . they broke me.”

Spike smoothed his free hand over the end of Caron’s arm. “They did this to you?”

“They pushed me to the ground and they hit me with something hard. Weapons. It . . . it hurt. It hurt and I couldn’t scream.”

Xander felt as if he might be sick, but he didn’t break his contact with Caron. Neither did Spike, who was looking a little greenish around the gills himself. “Then what?” he asked gently.

“They left me. I was face-down on the paving stones and there was nothing and leaves fell on me, little bugs crawled over me, the weeds grew between my legs. The dust settled on me until it was heavy, so heavy, and I couldn’t hear anymore. I thought I might be like that forever. Buried.”

Spike made a small, distressed noise, a sort of half-swallowed moan, and his jaw worked so tightly it must have hurt. Xander had never before wondered what it must be like to awaken as a newly fledged vamp, ravenous and confused and crammed in a coffin, having to dig your way upwards through six feet of dirt. A few New Years back, when everyone had consumed a few drinks too many, one of the Slayers had lured them all into a game of Truth or Dare. And during the game Buffy had to reveal the most terrifying moment of her life. She had said it was the moment she had discovered her mother, dead on the couch. But she told Xander later that the second scariest moment was when she was brought back to life and woke up in her coffin. Now it occurred to Xander that Spike may have had a similar experience, and even all these years later the memory of it might still be awful.

“But you got out, right?” Xander said, reminding both Caron and Spike, really.

“Yes,” Caron replied. “Men dug me out. They were very careful about it. They put me in a museum. I was sad to be indoors—I missed the sun and the nights were so quiet—but during the day there were people, and that was good. They didn’t touch me, but they’d talk about me. The museum people would give tours and say when I was made and where, and they’d talk about the fine workmanship, and what a pity it was that I was so damaged.”

Xander said, “I wouldn’t like people staring at me all day like that.”

“I didn’t mind. It was something. Better than nothing. But one day a woman who smelled of magic came. She scared me. The scent reminded me of the wizard. She stayed a long time that day and she knew what I was, because when nobody else was in the room she spoke to me. She said she’d make me hers. Not long after, some men arrived during the night. They stuck me in a box and carried me away. I was very glad when they took me out of the box, but then that woman was there. She did things to me. I don’t know what—words and burning herbs. Made me feel dizzy. But then . . . oh God, it _hurt_! The stone became flesh and finally I could scream. I screamed until I had no more voice and it still hurt.”

“The witch made you real again,” Spike said.

“Yes. I can’t tell you . . .  To move again, even with so much of me missing, it felt wonderful to move. I wanted to thank her.” Caron shook his head. “But she was angry. I think she believed that her magic would make me whole again. She tried more spells, more chanting, but nothing worked. I was still . . . ,” he waved the stumps of his arms, “still useless. Eventually she gave up. She had her men throw me in the water. I . . . I got out. But I didn’t . . . I didn’t know where to go. I was scared and I hid.” He turned his blind face to Spike. “And you found me.”

“I left you,” Spike said grimly.

“But you came back.”

“Sixty years later! And it wasn’t . . .  Xander found you, not me. I didn’t look for you.”

Caron didn’t seem perturbed by that. “You came back,” he said stubbornly.

Spike opened his mouth, perhaps to argue more, so Xander interrupted. “Now that we know all this stuff, is there some way for us to let the folks back home know you’re here? Maybe they could come get you, fix you up even.”

Caron shook his head. “No. They wouldn’t allow me back. I’m corrupted.”

“Because you’re . . . injured?”

“Because I’m _here_.”

“But that’s not your fault!” Xander said.

“That doesn’t matter. I haven’t anyone there to speak for me.”

Spike asked, “Don’t you people have family? Friends?”

“We . . . we search for someone. A partner. A . . . soul mate? Partners name each other and bond permanently. I hadn’t found one. And I’ve never had a friend.”

“You do now,” Xander said, squeezing Caron’s shoulder.

“Two of us,” agreed Spike. “And you could do worse. Xander saved the world once through friendship.”

It was Xander’s turn to be surprised. “You know about that? Weren’t you off doing the soul-man gig?”

“Red told me when I visited her at the Sanctuary. Told me several tales about you, as a matter of fact. I didn’t pay them much mind at the time. Perhaps I should have.”

Caron smiled. “I didn’t know that humans and vampires had soul mates as well. You are lucky to have each other.”

Xander and Spike spluttered in unison, until Spike managed to say, “Xander Harris is not my bloody soul mate. He’s just . . .” He sighed. “Just my mate, I expect.” And then he hunched slightly, as if he thought Xander were going to protest.

But Xander didn’t. Because whatever the deal was with The Kiss, he did have the feeling that he and Spike were friends now, and really, you couldn’t have too many friends, especially of the superhuman and deadly-to-your-enemies type. “Yeah. Weirdly enough, we’re friends.”

And Spike gave him a smile nearly as beautiful as Caron’s.  
[  
Chapter Ten](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/287321.html)  


 

 

  



	11. Chapter 11

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 10 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h6bgp/)  
---  
  
  
  


**Chapter Ten**

“How come the entire city of Venice seems to want you and me to be an item?” Xander demanded. He was sitting up on his side of the bed, his mouth smelling of cinnamon toothpaste. He had removed his eyepatch so only the indentations from the strap remained. The angel had fallen asleep, exhausted after all his unaccustomed talking, and shortly afterwards Xander had yawned and stretched and declared that he was exhausted as well. Spike had waited while Xander washed up and stripped to his boxers, and then Spike had trailed after him into the bedroom. He was a bit tired himself, actually, but it was too early for a vampire to turn in and he felt at loose ends.

In answer to Xander’s question, Spike smirked. “Perhaps they feel sorry for you, seeing as it’s been ages since you had a leg over.”

“Hey! My leg’s been over plenty of times, I’ll have you know.”

“Wanking doesn’t count.”

“Oh, but there has been mutual leg overage, my friend. Women and men—um . . . not at the same time—and most of them even human. Mostly.”

Spike raised one eyebrow. “Recently?”

“Yeah, just now. I had a gang-bang in the shower while you were watching _Oprah_ in Italiano. Anyway what about you? We’ve been rooming for a few weeks now and I’m the only one who’s shared your bed. Maybe the local supernatural community’s feeling sorry for your lack of action.”

“Just because I’m selective in who I shag doesn’t mean I’m desperate.”

“Selective? Harmony, Bleachboy. You slept with Harmony. “

“Need we discuss the number of your partners who’ve nearly eaten you, and not in the fun way?”

“I was just a kid then. I haven’t had a homicidal lay in years. And at least I didn’t spend months stalking my natural enemy, practically throwing myself at the end of her stake to get her to notice me.”

Spike stomped closer to the bed. “Don’t need to throw myself anywhere to be noticed, wanker. I don’t spend my unlife cowering behind girls and middle-aged librarians.”

Xander shot out of bed and planted himself in front of Spike, hands on his hips. “I don’t cower, asshole. You think it’s easy, throwing yourself at monsters with only one eye and totally ordinary fighting powers? No fangs or magic healing or immortality here, and I’m still in there!” 

“Still in there getting yourself mangled, you stupid twit.”

“Look who’s talking, Mr. Burns to Ashes and still comes back for more!”

They were both yelling, and Spike wasn’t certain what had begun the fight or how it had taken the turns it had. He couldn’t think of a good way to end it, either. So for lack of a better solution, he grabbed Xander’s shoulders, hauled him closer, and kissed him.

The kiss they’d shared earlier in the evening, the one for Signora Bennu’s benefit, that one had been brilliant. Xander might have initiated it to convince her he belonged to Spike, but the boy had put his full efforts into the pretense, so much so that Spike had almost forgot that it was faux passion. Now of course there was no audience, and Xander didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t hit Spike or pull away either, though, and after a moment he relaxed and settled his big hands on Spike’s back, just over the waist of his jeans.

Xander still tasted good—toothpaste and a hint of beer—and his pulse thudded rapidly, so very close to Spike. His shoulders were broad and strong, the bare skin of them seemingly hot enough to burn. Truth be told, Spike had kissed very few men. Angelus, back in the bad old days and Angel just once, the night before they took on Wolfram & Hart. Lindsey McDonald, when the lying lawyer had been pretending to be Doyle and pretending that Spike was a champion. And a few blokes here and there over the years, when Spike had wanted a shag before a meal, and when he’d been in the mood for hard muscles and a tight arse instead of softness and a wet cunt. But it had been ages, and anyway, none of those kisses were anything like this one.

The kiss with Xander made Spike _want_. It made his cock hard and his breathing ragged, and it tore him open, exposing his soul like a fragile flower, weakening his knees, making his thoughts a buzzing blur.

Eventually the kiss had to end, and then they stood inches apart, staring at each other.

“What . . . what was that?” Xander asked, his voice hoarse.

“Shutting you up.”

“You can shut me up without jamming your tongue down my throat.”

“But would that be as much fun?”

Spike realized that both of them were very tense—Spike in anticipation of Xander’s angry response, and Xander . . . well, he didn’t know why.  Deciding that it probably wouldn’t make things any worse, Spike reached up and smoothed a thumb across the fresh scar over Xander’s right eye and then at the pink marks left by the eyepatch. “You’re knackered. How about some sleep, and tomorrow we can work out how to find those Ulorar.”

Xander’s hands raised as well, and then dropped to his side. “Okay. Sleep sounds really good. It’s been kind of an eventful night.”

Xander climbed back into bed, this time lying on his side, and pulled the blankets up. After a moment’s hesitation, Spike clicked off the light, skimmed off his clothing, and lay down as well. It was a wide mattress and he kept himself far from Xander, but the man’s steady heartbeat was still loud and comforting.

Xander moved about a bit, shifting his arms and legs, tugging at the blankets, bunching the pillow under his head. And then he rolled over so he was facing Spike. “Hey,” he said softly.

“Yeah?”

“Since we had that chat with Caron, I’ve been wondering . . . do you have any bad stuff from your past you want to talk about? To ease the pain. ’Cause I’m willing to listen.”

“Why?”

“Dunno. Because that’s the kind of thing friends do for each other, I guess.”

Spike was suddenly very glad that the room was too dark for Xander to see his face.  “Right then,” he said after a moment of thought. “Let me tell you about a girl called Fred . . .”

***

Spike wasn’t stupid. He was impulsive and emotional, yeah. But just because he was so often led by his stupid dead heart or his very much alive dick didn’t mean his brain was no use whatsoever; and he’d left all his naiveté behind a hundred years earlier. The angel was doing something to him. Spike didn’t know how—celestial pheromones perhaps—but Caron made him _care_ , made him want to wrap the angel in cotton wool and look after him the way a mother cat looks after a kitten. Spike didn’t really mind being influenced that way. Caring for Caron was an easy task to begin with, and one that Spike shared with Xander.

But Xander. Now, there was the rub. Because Spike was definitely feeling . . . feelings for Xander Harris. Feelings of the warm and fuzzy and fondling sort. What’s more, their two kisses had given Spike the fairly strong impression that Xander shared those feelings. The question was whether those feelings had come about naturally, or whether they were some kind of side effect of Caron’s heavenly presence. Once upon a time, Spike wouldn’t have cared—he’d have tumbled Xander into the sack quick as a wink and they’d have shagged until neither of them could walk straight. But now there was the sodding soul, nagging at him, telling him it wasn’t right to take advantage of advantageous mojo. And not only that; Spike had been on the wrong side of unrequited love and twisted relationships enough already. He yearned for the real thing. True bloody Love, with capital letters and rose petals and trilling birds. Not false shadows born of desperation or magic.

Probably, staying far away from Xander was the wisest choice. Warning him of the angel’s manipulation of their emotions was even wiser.

But what if their developing . . . whatever . . . wasn’t Caron’s doing? What if it was real? If Spike mentioned his suspicions about Caron, Xander might be frightened away, and then where would Spike be? He ached for love like a junkie aches for heroin, and he’d had so few chances over the years. How could he risk ruining this opportunity?

It was a moral dilemma that would have stumped a human; for a demon—even one in possession of a somewhat battered soul—it was overwhelming. For the time being, Spike decided to take a middle course. He wouldn’t say anything to Xander but he’d keep his distance. Well, as much as possible, considering they were sharing a mission and an angel, and a bed.

Christ, Spike could scent disaster budding like a malevolent rose.

When Xander got out of bed in the early afternoon, Spike pretended to still be asleep. But as soon as Xander had padded off to the bathroom and the shower had begun to run, Spike clutched Xander’s pillow to himself, burying his face in the cotton. He remained like that a long time, listening to Xander shave and dress and check in on Caron. Caron was fine; he liked the apple juice Xander gave him very much. And then Xander was back in the kitchen, and cupboards were banging and dishes clattering: pleasant homely sounds that Spike hadn’t heard since he was human.  Spike smiled to himself and had almost dozed off when the scent of blood made him alert. He blinked his eyes open and there was Xander, hair still damp, holding a plate with a bowl on top.

“We gotta get you some real mugs,” Xander said. He held the dishes out.

Bemused, Spike sat up and took the plate from Xander. The bowl was so full of blood that a little had slopped over the edge onto the orange-rimmed plate. Spike took an experimental sip and discovered the blood was warmed almost exactly to human body temperature.

“What’s with the breakfast in bed?” Spike asked suspiciously.

Xander shrugged. “I made my own food, and then got Caron something to drink, and then I guess I was kind of on a roll. Just don’t splatter on the sheets, please. Anya used to eat saltines in bed and I think gore is even worse than crumbs.”

“I’ve been drinking blood for over a century, Xander. I can manage it without making a mess.”

“Well, yeah. But you haven’t spent most of those years drinking it out of bowls, have you? You weren’t William the Bloody Slurper.”

“No, I tore out the throats of weak humans—especially those who annoyed me.”

To Spike’s surprise, Xander’s grin didn’t fade. “Yep,” Xander said. “And I bet that was messy, too. You know, I always kind wondered . . . with the no reflection thing . . . did you ever walk around for a couple of days without noticing you had blood on your face or something? Kind of like the vamp equivalent of spinach in your teeth.”

“You’re barmy, mate.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Xander replied happily, and ran a hand through his hair. He reached for the bedside table, where he’d placed his eyepatch the night before.

“Do you always wear that thing?” Spike asked.

Xander played with the strap for a moment. “When I’m around other people. Don’t wanna squick them.”

“Doesn’t bother me,” Spike replied, and drank more of his blood.

“Says the guy consuming human juice.”

“’M just saying . . . it’s not that bad. But if it upsets you, why not get a glass eye?”

“Tried that. But it still kinda looked off, and anyway it got knocked out when I was fighting this demon that looked like a disgruntled aardvark.” He slipped the patch over his head and adjusted it into place. “Besides, I think the patch gives me the right pirate/Snake Plisskin vibe.”

“Or Moshe Dayan/James Joyce,” Spike muttered.

“Who?”

“Philistine,” responded Spike, and decided not to tell Xander of the time he and Joyce had tipped a few glasses in Trieste and Spike had given him some ideas to improve his poetry.

Xander shrugged. “How ’bout if you get your lazy vampire butt out of bed and we decide on a plan for tonight?”

“’M not lazy. It’s early yet by—”

“Yeah, yeah. Tell it to the judge.” With a final smirk, Xander turned and left the room.

***

Spike liked hot showers. They hadn’t been available when he was human, and during most of his years as a demon he’d resided in places without them. Crypts and old factories and the like made convenient vampire abodes, but they rarely came complete with mod cons. So whenever Spike did have modern plumbing available, he tended to take advantage of it. The huge shower in this flat came with Xander’s cinnamon soap and a fixture that provided excellent water pressure.

Spike turned the water on full blast and slipped into the shower, spending several minutes being thankful for the invention of instant water heaters. When he began to lather himself up, though, his hand inevitably strayed to his groin and his thoughts inevitably strayed to Xander. Xander, who he’d seen nearly naked in this same shower while they bathed Caron. Xander, who had a broad chest with well-developed muscles, and a sprinkling of dark hairs between his pecs which led down to his lower abdomen. Xander, who smelled of pizza and beer and life, and whose mouth had tasted so lovely when they had kissed. Spike pictured the way that mouth quirked up at the corners when Xander was amused, and as Spike took his erect cock in hand he imagined what those lips would feel like if they suckled on Spike’s nipples, or pressed warm trails down his belly, what that tongue would feel like licking his shaft and tickling at his glans.

Spike could imagine Xander down on his knees in the shower, much as he had been while they washed Caron, but in Spike’s mind there was no angel, and Xander was looking up at him, one eye sparkling with adoration, while hot calloused hands kneaded at Spike’s buttocks. Perhaps a single finger would work its way between Spike’s cheeks, and while soap made a poor slick it would be enough for Spike, and the finger would enter him just as he entered Xander’s mouth, and there would be heat in him, heat around him, and Xander’s too-long hair wet under Spike’s fingertips.

Spike only just managed to stop himself from shouting Xander’s name when he climaxed.

[Chapter Eleven](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/287508.html)   


 

  



	12. Chapter 12

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 11 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h7frc/)  
---  
  
  
  


**Chapter Eleven**

Spike was using up all the hot water in Venice. Xander wasn’t even sure why he had to shower—he hadn’t done anything to get dirty the day before, and he didn’t seem to sweat or produce any of the other icky body byproducts that humans did. But that thought led to thoughts of Spike’s body, and specifically Spike’s body naked in the shower, which Xander had recently had not-quite-intimate-enough acquaintance with.

Xander decided he needed a distraction.

Before they left London, Giles had given him a brand-new laptop because—did wonders never cease?—the former librarian had finally embraced the digital age. The computer was a snazzy little one, loaded with various programs Giles had thought might come in handy. Xander had secretly assumed that once they arrived in Venice, he would mostly be using the thing to surf porn. But as it turned out, he had his very own demonic NC17-rated visions dancing before his eye, and GayTube and Lovethecock.com were totally unnecessary. That meant Xander could actually use the computer just how it had been intended. Research.

He set the laptop on the kitchen table and pressed the power button. But as Windows took its sweet time to start up, Xander’s mind wandered, and inevitably it wandered to Spike and The Kisses—there were two of them now, but still with the caps—and combinations thereof. Xander didn’t understand why Spike had kissed him. They’d been having a perfectly good argument, one not so different than the zillions of other arguments they’d had in the past. It was the kind of fight that started out one place but somehow managed to get someplace totally different, until Xander had pretty much lost track of the thing altogether and only remained in it out of stubbornness. And then Spike had kissed him. It had been a very good kiss, at least as good as the one Xander had initiated for Signora Bennu’s benefit; and as their tongues tangoed, Spike had certainly seemed to get into the spirit of things as much as Xander had. But Xander couldn’t work out why Spike had done it. Was it part of an evilish plan to keep Xander off his guard? Or did Spike really _want_ Xander, in the same way Xander was beginning to admit to himself he wanted Spike?

It was too confusing to consider, really. So Xander opened the database that Giles had installed. It was a demon compendium, a really complete one. Giles and a few of the more scholarly-minded Slayers had been working on it these past few years, and Xander had the impression that Giles intended it to be his magnum opus, his lasting contribution to the good-guy supernatural community. It had drawings and photos, vital stats, maps, histories, and cross-references, as well as hot-links to websites Giles thought might be relevant. The database did just about everything except actually kill the demons, in fact. Willow had been using it at the Sanctuary as well, because it came in handy when figuring out each species’ needs and who was likely to be friendly.

“Ulorar,” Xander said to himself as he typed the word into the database’s search engine. But as he waited the few seconds for the program to do its thing, he began to think of Spike again. But this time less lasciviously, because what he was remembering was their discussion the night before, just before they had fallen asleep, when Spike had told him about friends he'd lost during Angel’s fight with the lawyers. It was always easier to discuss difficult things with the lights off, Xander thought, and in the intimacy of their shared bed Spike’s voice had been soft and wounded. It had been a long time since Xander had doubted Spike’s ability to care about others, but Spike’s tales of Fred and Wesley and the others had been so heartfelt, so sad. In the darkness, Spike had been nothing but a damaged, lonely man.

“It works better if you actually look at the screen,” Spike said from behind him, making Xander jump.

“I was thinking.”

“Hope you didn’t sprain anything.” Spike plopped down opposite Xander at the table. His hair was slicked back already, which was too bad—Xander liked how it looked when Spike first woke up, all curly bedhead. Not that it should matter what Xander thought of Spike’s hair. Or how he wondered what those curls would feel like if he ran his fingers through them.

Xander decided to ignore both the jibe and the inappropriate thoughts. “I’m doing research,” he announced.

“Good on you.”

“Trying to find out more about Ulorar.”

Spike sprawled in his chair, which was a good feat because the kitchen chairs weren’t very sprawl-enabling. It was probably a demon superpower. He grinned widely and looked inhumanely relaxed. “And how’s that going for you, Brainiac?”

“I’m . . . finding stuff out.” Xander squinted at the screen. “Like these guys aren’t gonna win any beauty contests. And . . . they have an especially acute sense of smell—that sounds like Giles-speak, doesn’t it?—and . . . ew! They like to eat intestines. Raw.”

“Chewier that way.”

Xander pretended Spike hadn’t spoken. “This says they track their prey by scent. It also says that they’re strong and hard to kill, and they mostly live in the mountains. That’s weird, ’cause nobody’s exactly skiing through Venice. Well, water skis maybe. Hey, that’d be kind of a cool way to get around town. I wonder if anybody here commutes that way?”

“Focus.”

“Yeah. Sorry. Gut-munching uglies. Um . . . they can go out during the day but they prefer to be nocturnal. Hey, handy for you.”

“Does it say what sort of prey they prefer?”

Xander peered at the tiny words. “Young and juicy. Ick. So then why’d they attack that old guy the signora told us about?”

“Dunno. Seems odd all around.”

“Yeah. Odd. Story of my life.” He closed his eye and rubbed at his temples.

“Something wrong?” asked Spike.

“No. Just . . . too many unanswered questions rattling around.” Xander didn’t mention that several of those questions centered around Spike himself.

They sat there a few minutes and then Spike huffed impatiently. “Bugger this. Not going to find the Ulorar sitting here. I’m going to go look for them.”

Xander rose to his feet. “Great. Hang on a sec while I get my shoes on and make sure Caron’s set.”

“You can stay here with him.”

“No way.” Xander folded his arms across his chest. “I didn’t get sent here to sit on my ass, Spike. In fact, I seem to remember that this was _my_ mission and you’re just here as backup.”

Spike narrowed his eyes and looked as if he were going to argue, but then shrugged. “Fine. I expect I ought to be seen out and about with my pet human anyway.”

Xander shut down the computer and went in search of his shoes, hoping Spike hadn’t noticed the grin he’d accidentally flashed when Spike referred to Xander as his.

Spike and Xander both sat on Caron’s bed as they laced up their shoes. “Do you need anything before we go out?” Xander asked. “Something to drink?”

Caron’s voice was soft. “No. Thank you.”

“Want the radio on again?”

“The radio?”

“The thing that makes music.”

“Oh!” Caron smiled his beautiful smile. “Yes. Please.” But then he looked serious again. “Are you doing something dangerous?”

Xander and Spike exchanged guilty glances. It hadn’t really occurred to either of them what might happen to the angel if they were killed. Spike patted Caron’s bicep. “Not especially. Just gathering information.”

“Is something wrong? Did I do something?”

“How could you possibly have done anything, mate? It’s nothing to do with you. There are some bad sorts in town and we need to find them.”

“Because . . . because you help people,” Caron said.

“Right.”

“We try,” Xander added.

Caron’s perfect eyebrows were drawn together in a frown. “These . . . these bad sorts. What do they do?”

Xander answered. “As far as we can tell, they’ve been attacking people. Hurting them. Killing them, maybe.”

“Purposely?”

“I think so.”

The angel’s face went impossibly paler. “But . . . but why? Why would someone purposely hurt others? That’s horrible.”

Xander wasn’t sure how to answer that—he didn’t know if there was a good answer, really—but Spike sighed. “Some do it for profit, and some because they get off on it. Hurting others . . . makes them feel strong. Powerful. Some have urges to harm—loads of demons do, but humans as well—and . . . and they act on those urges.” He looked down at his hands as if imagining all the killing they had perpetrated.

Quietly, Xander said, “And some resist those urges and learn to become good men.” But as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Spike gave him such an intense gaze that Xander had to look away.

Caron reached out, placing one arm on Xander’s leg and one on Spike’s. “Will they hurt you?”

“Not if we can help it,” Xander answered. “A lot of people have tried to hurt us. And most of them haven’t done any lasting damage. Just a scar or two, a missing eye maybe. No big deal. And Spike, hell, he’s the Energizer Vampire. And that reference means nothing to you, so just take my word for it. He’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. Besides, they won’t want us. These guys like munchies that smell young and juicy. Spike’s too dead for that and, as he likes to remind me, I am old.”

Caron shook his head. “But no! Xander, you smell . . . you smell very good.”

As Xander blinked in surprise, he caught Spike nodding in agreement.

“Maybe it’s the soap,” Xander said.

“Nah,” Spike said with another sigh. “’T’s you. Some people just smell like delicious demon dinners and you’re one of them. Can’t explain why.”

“May I just say, ick? But it does explain a lot. You could’ve mentioned this before, you know,” he added accusingly.

“What? ‘Oi, Harris, you smell lovely. Won’t mind if I have a little nibble, will you?’ Yeah, and the Slayer would have staked me before I could finish my sentence.”

“I’d have staked you,” Xander admitted. “But okay. If I’m stuck being the demonic version of Cinnabon, we might as well take advantage of that. Hello, I’m Xander Harris. I’ll be your bait tonight.”

“’S dangerous,” Spike answered with a scowl.

“But apparently I’ve been walking around with an ‘Eat Me’ sign for years, right? And here I am, uneaten.” And those words made him suddenly blush, which he hoped Spike didn’t notice. To cover it up, he added, “I’m gonna go, Spike. You can’t stop me.”

Spike mumbled something about tying him up—which made Xander blush again—but dropped the argument. After saying their goodbyes to Caron, they left the apartment. Xander let Spike lead the way, and neither of them spoke as they tromped across cobblestones, past tourists and wine bars and closed-up shops. After ten minutes or so, Xander finally piped up. “Where we going?”

“Castello,” Spike said.

“Which is what?”

Spike gave him an irritated glance. “One of the sestieri. Dunno if our friends the Ulorar will be there, but it seems as likely as anyplace else.”

“Okay,” Xander said agreeably.

Eventually they came to the end of the island, in this case a spot where the Grand Canal opened up into wider waters. Several cafes were strewn along the cement walkway, and two of them were actually perched on wooden docks over the wavelets. Spike steered Xander to one of them: a scattering of a half dozen tables, each with a flickering candle. As soon as Xander was seated, Spike walked several yards away to another restaurant. He arranged himself so he could see Xander—and vice versa—but nobody would know they were together.

When the waiter came by, Xander ordered a beer. He saw that Spike did the same. And then they both just sat there, watching the little boats putter on by, listening to the tourists chattering in a multitude of languages. 

Xander had finished his beer and had just begun another when a girl approached his table. She was young, maybe twentyish, with sun-streaked hair, a tight tank-top that left her navel exposed, and a long swirly skirt in a colorful print. She wore pink flip-flops and her toenails were painted emerald green. “Uh, scusi?” she said, in what even he could tell was a terrible accent.

He answered in English, of course. “If you’re asking for directions, I’m not gonna be any help at all.”

Her pretty face lit up. “You’re American!” she squealed.

“Occasionally.”

Without asking, she pulled out a chair and plopped herself down. “Omigod! I am so psyched to be talking American again. I’ve been, like, bumming around Europe, but my so-called friends ditched me in Tuscany and now I’m stuck all alone with a zillion skeezy Italian guys. Where are you from?”

Over the girl’s shoulder, Spike was watching and frowning. Xander didn’t know why—this girl was obviously not Ulorar. 

“California, once upon a time,” Xander replied.

She clapped her hands. “Really? Me too! Where?”

“South,” he said enigmatically. Mentioning Sunnydale was never a good idea.

“Me too! I’m from LA. Well, the Valley, but that’s, like, almost LA. I mean, it’s closer than Italy, right? And I came here ’cause I thought it was gonna be like Venice Beach, but it’s so not.”

“Um, yeah. I guess not.”

She had a purse over her shoulder, one of those enormous multicolored straw things that would have been big enough for him to pack most of his belongings into. He always wondered what women had to carry with them all the time, and why there was so much of it. She began to dig inside the purse, which of course took a long time. He waited patiently, until finally she pulled out a big key on a Hello Kitty key ring.

“So, I know this is kind of weird,” she said. “And I’m not a slut or anything, okay? But like I said, I’m really missing the whole American thing, and I’ve got this really cool place here—my uncle owns it and he’s, like, really loaded—and I was hoping you’d wanna come back with me. Maybe watch some _Gilmour Girls_ on DVD, just kinda hang.”

Xander blinked at her. He was trying to craft a reply that wouldn’t be too rude when Spike suddenly appeared from nowhere and grabbed the girl’s upper arms, yanking her to her feet.

“Hey!” said she and Xander together. Xander leapt out of his chair.

“Claws off, bitch,” Spike hissed.

“Spike, what the hell—” Xander began, but before he finished, Spike had let go of the girl, flung an arm around him, and squeezed a big handful of Xander’s ass.

Xander didn’t move, both because he was astonished at the turn of events, and also because Spike’s hand felt pretty good where it was. Strong. Lean fingers digging into the denim and muscle.

The girl looked furious. Not that Xander could blame her. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

“Protecting what’s mine,” Spike growled back.

Xander turned to look at him. “We were just talking. She’s from California, too, and—”

“Bollocks.” Spike raised an eyebrow at her. “Wanna show him your true face?”

While she glared, Xander groaned. “Oh, no. She’s not a vamp, is she? Because—”

“Not a vampire,” Spike interrupted, his grip still firm on Xander’s butt. “It’s not your blood she wants.”

“Then what?”

Spike had relaxed a little as the girl continued to look angry. “She’s a succubus, pet.”

“A what?”

“Succubus. They feed off sex like I feed off blood.”

“I wouldn’t have killed him!” she said. “He would’ve enjoyed himself.”

“Yeah, while you fucked the energy right out of him.” Spike looked at Xander. “You might’ve survived, but fifty-fifty you’d never get it up again.”

Xander felt a little ill. “Um . . . yuck.”

She raised her chin in the air. “That’s just ’cause once they’ve had me, nothing else is good enough.”

“Well, he’s not your type, princess. Go find someone else. Like him,” Spike added, pointing at a middle-aged man with a paunch, who was leering at a group of college-aged girls boarding a gondola. “And spread the word—this boy is taken.”

She narrowed her eyes at both of them and stomped away. Spike finally let go of Xander and sat in the chair the succubus had vacated. The waiter had been hovering near the edges, more amused than concerned, and when he seemed likely to approach the table, Spike waved him away.

Xander sat down, too. “Um . . . thanks?”

Spike glared.

“So I guess the old demon magnet thing is still working,” Xander said.

“You’re meant to be looking for Ulorar.”

“Yeah, I know. But she just walked up and started talking. I didn’t know she wasn’t human. She looked pretty human.”

“Dunno how you’ve managed to stay alive so long.”

“I wasn’t gonna go with her!” Xander protested. “I was gonna tell her no thanks. You didn’t give me a chance.”

Spike paused and crossed his arms on his chest. “Why not?”

“Why not what?” Xander asked with a sigh.

“Why not go with her? That package she’s wearing is pretty enough.”

“Sure. I guess so. But I’m with you. On a mission! I’m with you on a mission, supposed to be hunting bad guys and not picking up girls, right?”

Spike’s face had gone unreadable. He peered at Xander for a long time while Xander fidgeted nervously with his paper napkin, tearing off tiny bits and rolling them into balls. Finally, Spike shook his head. “Well, I expect we’ve made enough of a scene for tonight. If there’s any Ulorar nearby they won’t show their faces. Might as well drink.” And he grabbed Xander’s glass and took a long swallow.

Xander considered the change of plans and decided inebriation was preferable to demon baiting. Especially when he could still almost feel Spike’s hand on him, and when he was starting to wonder what that hand would feel like without intervening layers of clothes. 

Xander signaled the waiter for another drink.

[Chapter Twelve](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/287763.html)   


 

  



	13. Chapter 13

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 12 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h8zsc/)  
---  
  
  
  


**Chapter Twelve**

“What happened to the cigarettes?”

Spike looked up from his empty beer glass. Xander was staring at him, his one eye squinted inquisitively, if slightly blearily.

“What?” Spike wondered if maybe he was drunker than he thought. Had he lost an entire conversation?

“The cigarettes. You used to smoke them all the time. The Surgeon General’s warnings not being an issue, I guess. But I haven’t seen you smoke since you showed up in London, and you don’t smell like them either. Not that I’m trying to sniff you or anything, but you know, even without vamp senses, some things are kinda obvious. Like for instance—”

“Gave ’em up.”

“Huh?”

Spike sighed. “Quit. I quit smoking.”

“Oh,” Xander said, slightly taken aback. “Did you have to use the patch or something? Do they have demon patches?”

Spike decided to ignore the questions, and Xander was silent for a few minutes, but then he asked, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why’d you quit?”

That made Spike squirm uncomfortably. “Was Angel, okay?”

“Caron?”

“No, berk. Not Caron. Angel. Angelus. Well, Liam now. He’s human, and I was hanging about with him quite a bit, back when he first got Shanshued.” Spike shrugged. “Didn’t seem right to kill him off straight away, now that he’s mortal again.”

“Oh.” But Xander kept looking at him, like Spike was a puzzle he was trying to solve. 

“What?” Spike demanded, discomfited by the scrutiny.

“Were you . . . disappointed? That it was him instead of you, I mean.”

“Course not! Why would I want to be weak and have to piss and shit and shave and end up old and bloody bald and die?”

“I don’t know. Some people kinda like being human.”

Spike made a face that he hoped conveyed his low opinion of such thoughts.

Xander finally looked away, back at the shreds of his paper napkin, which he’d been slowly destroying for the past two hours. Then he said something very quietly.

“What?” Spike asked.

Xander raised his head and looked him in the eye. “It should have been you. You’re twice the champion that Formerly Deadboy ever was.” And while Spike was still too astonished to respond, Xander threw some Euros onto the table and stood. “C’mon. Let’s go see how Caron’s doing.”

***

Xander must have been paying some attention after all, because he was able to find his way back to their flat with only two wrong turns. Spike followed slightly behind, watching Xander’s firm arse, knowing now what that arse felt like in his hand. Lovely. It felt lovely. And Spike was sober enough to realize that was wrong; he shouldn’t be thinking so longingly of Xander Harris’s bum. Shouldn’t be wondering what it would feel like to take a big handful of each cheek without the sodding denim getting in his way, what it would be like if Xander did the same to him, so that their hips were pressed together, their groins flush, cocks hard and rubbing and—

Spike stumbled over a bit of broken cobblestone and pretended he hadn’t.

Xander hadn’t been the first person to say that Spike deserved the prophecy’s reward more than Angel did—Willow had said the same thing a few months earlier. It had warmed Spike’s insides when the witch had said it, but Xander’s words had made his head spin. Xander had seemed so earnest about it, tipsiness and all, so sincere. And Spike found himself in the ridiculous position of caring what Xander Harris thought of him.

Spike hadn’t lied to either Willow or Xander—he truly didn’t wish to be a real boy. Yeah, there were downsides to being a vampire. Spike still missed the sun now and then. Wished he’d had the chance to properly enjoy it when he’d been alive. But the cons of vampirism were outweighed by the pros, and Spike had become accustomed to what he was. Comfortable with it. His demon and his soul had finally reached a truce that didn’t drive him ’round the bend. And as for the bloody redemption shite, he reckoned he’d earn it or not, and it didn’t matter whether he was human or not as he did so. In fact, he could do more good as a vampire, fight more battles, defeat more foes.

So, no. He didn’t really begrudge his sire his newfound humanity. Let the poor sod enjoy it, with his bendy wife and his paint pots, and the smile lines that had formed in the corners of his tanned face. 

But ever since that twat Lindsey had told him of the prophecy, it had galled Spike to believe that he might not be quite worthy, that despite all he had done—he had burned himself to ashes!—it wasn’t quite enough. That Angel was better than he was, that Spike remained the bloody sidekick, the backup, the understudy who performed when the real star was otherwise engaged.  He was always second best to Daddy in Drusilla’s eyes, and for Buffy he was a punching bag, a sex toy, a willing and available bloke. Not her One True Love. He pretended none of this mattered, but he didn’t fool himself for a moment.

Xander used to hate Spike, and the best the boy had ever felt for him had been contempt. And now, to be called a hero by that same man—even if that man’s perceptions were temporarily colored by an angel’s magic—that meant a lot to Spike. In fact, those kind words were among the most valuable gifts he’d ever received.

“Where are you going?”

Spike stopped in his tracks. He’d been so lost in thought that he’d continued walking right past their building, leaving an amused Xander standing at the door. “Just checking the area,” Spike replied gruffly. “Making sure nothing nasty’s been lurking about.”

“Oh,” Xander said, unlocking the door with a loud, metallic thunk. “So we all clear?”

“Why? Were you hoping your succubus chased after you?”

“Nope. You said it yourself. She’s not my type.” Xander grinned and went inside.

Caron seemed happy they were back. “You weren’t hurt,” he stated, briefly touching them both with his arms as if to make sure they were real.

“Not a scratch,” Xander confirmed.

“But the whelp nearly got himself shagged to death.”

“Okay, first off, I didn’t know she was a succubus, although God knows when someone comes on to me I should pretty much assume they’re not human. And second, there was going to be no shagging. We were just talking, Spike.”

“Always starts with talking, doesn’t it? And soon she’s luring you back to her den, and she's down on her knees in front of you—do you know what those bints can do with their tongues?—and you’re dead, with a big smile plastered on your stupid face.”

“Well, there’s worse ways to go, I suppose. I mean, there were a few times I thought Anya was gonna—  Never mind. But I wasn’t going to let this girl lure me anywhere.”

Caron had been swiveling his head back and forth as they spoke, a small frown of confusion on his face. “But . . . I’m sure Xander wouldn’t be unfaithful to you, Spike. Or you to him.”

Xander blushed and ducked his head.

Spike cleared his throat. “Erm, the boy and I, we’re not . . .  We’ve only been pretending, like. Makes a better impression on the local demons.”

“Pretending?” Caron asked, just as Spike remembered that they’d never played their little game of ownership in front of the angel. “But I was certain . . .  I guess I know less about people than I thought.” He looked saddened. Disappointed.

Xander patted his shoulder. “Look. Me and Spike, we’re…we’re friends, okay? I even kinda like the annoying little menace. And we’re partners for now—job partners, not the gay kind—and neither of us is gonna get succubused or abandon you.”

“All right,” Caron said, but he didn’t look pleased. Spike, on the other hand, had to hide a grin over being called Xander’s friend. Wasn’t as if Spike had ever had many mates—it was nice to have one now, even if Spike was wishing they could be more.

“Can I get you anything?” Xander asked Caron. “Something to drink?”

“No, thank you.” Caron hesitated. “But perhaps . . .”

“What?”

“The warm water, when you cleaned me the other day. It was lovely. Could . . . could we do that again?”

“Sure.” Xander looked over at Spike. “You up for some lifting and scrubbing?”

Xander offered to help carry Caron, but it was easier for Spike just to drape the angel in his arms like a very large baby. As Spike toted him to the loo, he couldn’t resist a snuffle at the warm, delicious-smelling neck. Caron didn’t seem to mind the little intimacy, and Spike emphatically remembered the mouthfuls of holy water. Caron leaned his head against Spike’s shoulder and sighed contentedly. The poorly cut stubble on his head was soft and tickly, and Spike refused to calculate how long it had been since Spike had held someone—or been held.

By the time Spike and Caron arrived in the bathroom, Xander was standing in the shower, naked. The water was cascading off his shaggy head, over broad shoulders, down a body that was trim and scattered with scars. He looked very self-conscious, but didn’t move to cover his groin, where his thick cock hung softly between his powerful legs.

Spike managed not to lick his lips. Instead, he set Caron down on the shower floor, getting himself somewhat wet in the process. “No knickers this time?” Spike asked as he began to strip off his own clothing. He hoped he was pulling off nonchalant passably well. 

Xander knelt beside Caron and began to soap the angel’s back. Caron leaned back into Xander’s touch and looked blissful. “Nah,” Xander said, not looking up at Spike. “I guess it’s time for the full monty, seeing as I’m your pet and everything.” 

By then, Spike had pulled off his trousers. He was relieved that Xander had been concentrating on his cleansing task; that meant he hadn’t seen Spike’s cock give a definite twitch when Xander called himself Spike’s pet. “Down, boy!” Spike whispered urgently at his headstrong dick.

“Huh?” Xander glanced his way.

“Nothing.” Spike climbed into the shower enclosure.

On the one hand, bathing Caron was much simpler this time around; he could sit—even kneel—and could help move his body about so he could be scrubbed properly. Really, Xander could easily have done the job himself. But on the other hand, this time was much more difficult because Xander _wasn’t_ doing the job himself, Spike was helping. They were wet and naked, and soaping and rinsing Caron didn’t take enough concentration to distract Spike from Xander’s close presence. Xander was smiling at Caron’s purely hedonistic enjoyment of the shower, and Xander’s hair was hanging in wet strands in his face, and the combined scents of cinnamon and angel and human were so strong that Spike felt slightly drunk from it all. 

To sober himself up a bit—and deflate the incipient hard-on he was trying to shield from Xander’s view—Spike took it upon himself to clean between Caron’s legs. The angel didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he spread his thighs farther apart, giving Spike better access. But the devastation of the mutilated groin was sufficient to get Spike’s libido under control, for the time being at least.

Meanwhile, Caron was all but purring as Xander shampooed him, kneading suds into hair that was too short to need it. “Do they have showers in heaven?” Xander asked.

“No,” Caron replied. “Nobody gets dirty.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound like much fun. ’Cause I like getting dirty, now and then. You know, squishing your hands into warm mud, or splashing in rain puddles, or working really hard at something so you get all sweaty and with grease under your fingernails. A couple years ago, I went with some Slayers on this thing in Slovenia. Except somebody hadn’t been listening very well—I swear it wasn’t me!—and it turns out the real bad guys were in Slavonia, which is a whole different place. So there we were, kinda stuck for a day while the mess got straightened out, and I went for a little hike in the mountains. It started pouring and I got soaked and I fell in the mud and by the time I got back to our rooms I was so filthy the girls weren’t sure at first I wasn’t some kind of monster. Then I took a long, long bath. It was great.”

As Xander spoke, he finished rinsing Caron. Spike had completed his work as well, so he simply sat on his haunches and watched Xander. Xander had a small smile on his lips and his movements were sure and relaxed. Simplicity was not at all the same thing as stupidity, Spike thought. Xander used to mock his own troubles in school, and he wasn’t as sharp-minded as his Scooby pals, but he wasn’t an idiot, either. There was nothing foolish about wanting uncomplicated pleasures like a good mess followed by a good bath, or a tasty meal, or repairing something that was broken.

“Feeling fresh as a daisy?” Xander asked. He reached out of the shower for a towel, which he wrapped around Caron’s shoulders.

Caron hunched up so he could rub his cheek against the thick terry. “Thank you. That was lovely. Can . . . can we do it again?”

“Not tonight!” Xander said with a laugh. “Some of us are getting pruny. Tomorrow, okay?”

Caron nodded. “Thank you.”

Spike took Caron back to his bed and tucked him in. He had to resist the urge to plant a kiss on the angel’s forehead, like his mother used to kiss him when he was very young. Then he fiddled with the radio for a bit until he found a station that seemed to play mostly horrible American pop music from the 1980s. Spike shuddered at the caterwauling but Caron fancied it, so Spike let it be. Then Spike detoured into the kitchen. When he opened the cupboard for a bowl, he discovered a pair of oversized mugs on the shelf, one red and one blue. The red one had a sticky note attached: _This_ _one is for blood_ was scrawled in barely legible handwriting. Spike smiled broadly and poured a packet of blood into the designated cup.

“Another pressie?” he asked when he entered the bedroom a few minutes later. Xander was already in bed.

“The bowls were messy. And I didn’t like the idea of eating my Cap’n Crunch from the bowl that had previously held A-Positive.”

“There’s no Cap’n Crunch in Italy.”

Xander shrugged. “Yet the principle remains intact.”

Spike hadn’t bothered to dress again when they were finished bathing Caron, so now he simply slid between the sheets. He reached over and turned off the bedside light.

“Kinda early for a vamp to turn in, isn’t it?” Xander asked.

“Yeah, but some knob insists on waking me up early every day.”

“The early vamp gets the worm. Or something.” After a brief pause, Xander added, “Hey, Spike?”

“What?”

“I was thinking about Caron. He’s just stuck in bed all day, and maybe the radio gets boring. I mean, there’s TV, but he can’t see it, and anyway Italian television is possibly one of the levels of hell.”

“So?”

“So maybe we could get him some audiobooks. There’s a store just two canals away that sells iPods and stuff.”

That was actually a good idea, and Spike was annoyed that he hadn’t thought of it first. “And what sorts of books would you choose for him, then? Some of your favorites? You know, comic books don’t work well in audio format.”

Instead of acting wounded at Spike’s nasty tone, Xander struck back. “Yeah? So instead maybe we should get him the stuff from your top 10 list. _Horrible Love Poetry That Will Make You Gag_. _Big Badness for Dummies. Great Fashions from Forty Years Ago_.”

“At least my kit doesn’t have cartoon characters on it!”

“Hey! Mickey Mouse is a classic. And anyway, I was being ironic.”

Spike snorted. “You wouldn’t know irony if it bashed you over your thick skull.”

“Sure I would. Irony is spending my life fighting monsters, only to end up sharing a bed with the used-to-be-evil undead.”

“That’s not irony, tosser—that’s just very good fortune.”

“Oh yeah?” Xander said, and poked Spike in the side with one finger.

“Brilliant comeback,” Spike replied, and poked him back.

“Oh yeah? Then what about this?” Xander countered. And he rolled halfway on top of Spike and covered Spike’s lips with his.

Right then. Another kiss, and this one at least as lovely as the first two. But this time their mouths weren’t the only bits touching; in fact, what felt like acres of hot, bare skin was pressed against Spike’s cold carcass. Spike’s body drank the contact the way a parched plant takes in water after a long drought. And there were hands. Big, rough hands, calloused and nimble, and one of them was clutching Spike’s shoulder while the other latched onto his hipbone. Oh, Christ. He could feel the considerable length of Xander’s cock nestled into his pelvis, and at the same time that Xander’s cock grew hard and insistent, so did Spike’s, so that it took all of Spike’s willpower not to thrust up against Xander’s heavy body.

Of their own accord, Spike’s hands rose and settled exactly where they had yearned to be all night: atop Xander’s arse. Spike squeezed and it was better than he had imagined, and Xander actually moaned right into Spike’s mouth.

But then Spike’s brain—and the blasted, bloody soul—regained some control. Spike moved his hands off Xander’s bum and instead pushed the man slightly upwards, breaking their kiss.

“How’s _that_ for witty repartee?” Xander said breathlessly.

“We have to stop. Now.”

“Stop? Why? Don’t tell me you’re not into it,” Xander said, and did an interesting little wiggle of his hips that sent delightful shivers up Spike’s spine. “I can feel you, Spike. And we’re both single guys, right? And it’ll help with the whole you-own-me thing, I mean with the smells and all.”

“I don’t . . .” It was hard to come up with a good argument when Spike didn’t truly want to win. He took a deep breath. “It’s the angel, Xander.”

“Caron? What, you think he’ll be offended or something? He didn’t strike me as homophobic, Spike.”

“No, that’s not . . .  I think he’s doing this.”

“He’s in the next room listening to Kenny Loggins. This is all me.” Xander wiggled again.

“God . . . stop! I mean . . . he’s doing something to us. Dunno what. Celestial pheromones. He’s making us . . . making us _want_ each other.”

That made Xander go very still. “Why would he do that?”

“Dunno, do I? Perhaps it’s a defense mechanism. Something in him makes us want to care for him. Like the way some of the Slayers start cooing every time they see a baby or a puppy. And this . . . ,” Spike gestured vaguely in the dark at the two of them, “is a side effect.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Xander rolled off Spike. He came to rest on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Spike wanted to cry.

“So this isn’t real,” Xander said. “Caron’s like Spanish fly and we’re his patsies.”

“I expect it’s accidental, although maybe he’s perfectly aware of what he’s doing. In any case, I don’t think he means ill by it.”

“He doesn’t mean us ill but we’re his love zombies.”

Spike snorted. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Xander sighed, long and loud. “It _feels_ real, Spike.”

“I know.”

And then Spike got out of bed and headed to the loo for his third shower and second wank of the day.

[Chapter Thirteen](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/288290.html)   


 

 

  



	14. Chapter 14

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 13 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h9gtp/)  
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**Chapter Thirteen**

Xander could hear the shower running and he knew what Spike was up to. After all, it wasn’t like the vampire got dirty on his journey between Caron’s room and theirs. Xander squeezed his eye tightly shut and tried not to imagine Spike beating off in the shower: long, thin fingers wrapped around a long, elegant cock; plump lip caught between white teeth; silvery trails of water sluicing over milk-white skin, over nipples like rosebuds, over rippled abs. Yeah. That not imagining was going really well.

Finally, Xander sighed in exasperation and resignation and took his own insistent cock in hand. The stubborn thing didn’t care whether what he was feeling was angel hormones or fairy dust or anything else—it wanted Spike, and it wanted him badly. And Xander knew that the moment Spike returned to the bedroom he’d take one whiff and know exactly what Xander had been doing in his absence, plus he’d know that Xander had been fantasizing about him while he did it. But that didn’t stop Xander’s hand from stroking his shaft, or his fingers from playing with the glans and collecting the precome that was dripping stickily, or his other hand from wandering south and cradling his balls.

Xander jerked off while he thought of Spike thinking of him while he jerked off, too.

It didn’t take Xander long to come, just a few moments before the shower turned off. But it wasn’t a very satisfying climax. It left him feeling empty and deprived. He sighed and scooped a dirty t-shirt off the floor, using it to wipe off his hand and to do a completely inadequate job of cleaning his crotch. Then he dropped the shirt back onto the floor.

He fell asleep before Spike came back to bed.

***

Spike was either sleeping when Xander woke up or doing a good job of faking it. He wasn’t breathing, but his mouth was open slightly, his long lashes incongruously dark against his skin.

Xander stood under the warm spray and showered off the flaky semen—he was nothing if not clean, lately—and noticed that they were already running low on soap. He dried off and shaved and combed his hair and got dressed. And he checked in on Caron, who looked worried.

“Are you unhappy, Xander?” 

Xander wondered how the angel could tell. Probably he could smell it. Dammit, Xander wished he didn’t have a pair of supernatural bloodhounds for roomies. Was it too much to ask for a little olfactory privacy? He considered saying something accusatory about the whole love potion thing, but  Caron already looked honestly distressed and Xander couldn’t make himself add to the angel’s misery.

“It’s okay,” Xander said. “Just a little . . . thing. I’ll get over it.”

“Can I help?”

“No. Thanks. Look, I’m gonna go for a walk. I’ll be back in a while. Call Spike if you need anything.”

“All right, Xander.”

It was slightly past midday and the cafes were filled with people munching. Xander decided to splurge a little. The Council could afford it. So he chose a small restaurant with a dark interior. The waiter spoke only a few words of English but they quickly established that he should bring Xander whatever was good that day. And he did, beginning with a plate of raw fish that was far too delicious for more than a cursory squick, followed by more fish—lightly cooked in olive oil this time—and finally a platter of pasta with shrimp. Xander ate it all, accompanied by a bunch of crusty bread and three glasses of good white wine. It took very little persuasion for him to agree to the chocolate mousse for dessert.

He was in a better mood when he finally rolled out of the restaurant. The waiter was pretty pleased too—Xander had left him a hefty tip.

Xander wandered over to the shop with the iPods. He was greeted at the door by a friendly little pug that lifted his spirits further, because how could you be totally grouchy with that squishy face and wagging butt and lolling tongue? God, maybe he needed a dog. Instead, he let the cute girl behind the counter sell him an iPod touch. Even though Caron couldn't see, some of the accessibility features would come in handy.

He took his new purchase to the internet cafe where a three Euro can of Coke also bought him wifi access. He had spent nearly an hour surfing iTunes and downloading music and audiobooks when his phone began to play the Beach Boys’ _Fun Fun Fun._

“Hi, Giles,” Xander said without much enthusiasm.

“Ah, I was correct. Buffy was insisting you had been eaten by something, and I said you were only being frightfully lax in your reporting duties. Thank you for meeting my expectations.”

“And thanks for the daily dose of dry British humor. You can’t get that around here. It’s like peanut butter and chocolate chips.”

“What have you two been doing, Xander?”

With great difficulty, Xander stifled hysterical laughter. “What we’re supposed to be. Gathering info. We have a couple leads, but nothing firm yet. Give us a little longer.”

Giles made an impatient noise. “Very well. As long as you and Spike haven’t staked or bitten one another yet.”

“Not yet,” Xander managed, hoping it didn’t come out sounding too choked. “Anyway, wasn’t this whole thing mostly a ploy to get rid of us? I’d think you’d be pleased to have us out of your not-slightly-thinning hair.”

“We did not want to get rid of you, Xander. Well, at least not you personally. We just thought—”

“I’d be safer away from the slayage. I know.” Xander watched as a pigeon waddled into the bar through the open door. The lady behind the counter squawked at in Chinese and chased it away. “Um . . . there has kinda been one interesting development.”

“Which is?” Giles’ voice had sharpened with interest.

“We found an angel.”

“You found Angel? I thought he was living in Arizona or someplace.”

“It’s New Mexico, and not _the_ Angel with a capital A. _An_ angel. You know, wings, white robes, halos? Except ours doesn’t actually have any of those things. He smells good, though. Well, Spike says so.”

“Xander, whatever are you talking about?”

So Xander played with his empty Coke can and watched the lady chase more pigeons and saw an old woman head towards the back room with a tiny white dog in her purse, and he told Giles all about Caron, minus the sex pollen part. While Xander spoke, Giles sort of oohed and aahed and made those noises he made when he was desperate to go look things up in books.

There was a brief silence after the tale was told. And then Giles said, “You must bring him here at once.”

“No!” Xander exclaimed automatically. In a calmer voice, the voice of reason, he added, “No way. He knows us and trusts us and we’re taking care of him and keeping him safe. He wants to stay with us. I think the circus at HQ might freak him out, plus some of you are gonna want to poke and prod at him and figure him out. So, no. He’s had a really rough time of it for . . . for centuries, Giles. Give him some time to recover a little. Let him have some peace. We’ll bring him back with us when we’re done here—if that’s what he wants.”

Giles muttered something about inadvisable and imprudent, but in the end didn’t put up much of an argument. Maybe he could hear the stubbornness in Xander’s voice. Xander knew it was stupid, but he felt like Caron was his—his and Spike’s—and he didn’t want to share the angel with all and sundry. Besides, he hadn’t been lying when he said that Caron deserved some quiet time to gain strength.

“Do be careful, Xander. Complete your business there and return to London as soon as possible. In the meantime, keep us informed of any occurrences. And I shall do some research on angels.”

“Jawohl,” said Xander, mentally adding that there were certain occurrences of which Giles and crew would most certainly remain unaware. “Knock yourself out.”

***

Xander considered springing an additional three Euro for another Coke, but instead he tucked the iPod back in its bag, said “Ciao” to the pigeon-chasing lady, and ventured back outside. He didn’t have a destination in mind; he simply let his feet go where they wanted.

After a while he found himself in a familiar square with a bench in the middle. The square was more cheerful in the daytime: a couple of little kids were riding their bicycles around, squealing and laughing, while their grandparents sat on the bench, chatting animatedly and keeping an eye on the kids. There was a small café at one edge of the square where a few people read newspapers over espressos or glasses of wine. Three middle-aged men stood near the capped-over cistern in the center of the square, talking loudly and waving their hands around. Xander guessed they were discussing either politics or sports. A pair of tourists were reading a sign that was affixed to the wall of one of the surrounding buildings. He had a baseball cap, khaki shorts, and a red t-shirt, and she wore a summer dress and carried a guidebook in one hand.

That narrow passageway was still there, and even in the bright sun it looked sinister. You couldn’t see the other end of it because the passageway turned in the middle, and from this side it looked like a trap. 

Xander stood at the edge of the campo opposite the opening and watched for a while. People came and went via various streets, and the children zoomed around on their bikes, but nobody ever went near the passageway. As best as he could tell, nobody even looked at it. It was as if it weren’t there.

Eventually, he ambled across the square, narrowly missing a collision with a 6-year-old on a pink Barbie bike as he went. He poked his head into the passageway and immediately got a noseful of the awful smell—piss and shit and rot. Still, he ventured inside, where it was almost as dark as if it had been night. And he walked along, trying to breathe through his mouth, until he had passed the bend and could just make out the glint of sunshine on water at the other end. Right there. That’s where he had found the angel. That’s where Caron had spent . . . how long? Years. Decades. Alone and miserable. There was nothing there now but wadded up newspapers and plastic bags and broken glass. Nothing to show that an angel had once lain there. Xander decided to take that as a good sign, a sign that Caron was permanently free of this place.

He kept on walking, back out into the light.

While Xander didn’t have a destination in mind, his wandering did have a purpose. He needed to think about him and Spike, and he needed to make some sort of decision. So he thought and he walked, and he wondered how one city could possibly support so many mask or glass jewelry shops, and he directed some lost French people towards the Rialto, and he ate a melon-flavored gelato, and he ducked past delivery guys who pushed carts and yelled “Attenzione!” at the clueless people in their way. He passed a shop that sold handmade papers and books with woodcut designs printed on them, and on a whim he went inside and bought a journal with an illustration of the Venetian lion in red. He thought Willow might like it. And eventually he found himself in front of a long, low modern building. A sign on the front of it bore stylized wings and the letters FS. 

“Oh,” Xander said out loud, startling a woman who was walking by. “Train station.”

A bunch of people were sitting on the broad front stairs, many of them with suitcases or shopping bags, some of them munching pizza or licking ice cream cones. The space between the stairs and the canal was bustling, too, with people getting on or off vaporettos or just walking by. Three boys were playing soccer with an empty plastic bottle, and sometimes passersby would take a turn or two at kicking the bottle as well. A zillion pigeons strutted around, dodging feet and pecking at discarded crumbs of food.

A few cement steps led down to the canal itself, and Xander sat down on one of these, his feet slightly above the slimy, seaweedy high-water mark. The canal was a busy place, with vaporettos and delivery boats and water taxis and gondolas and personal watercraft going to and fro. He liked the way the boat drivers called out to one another, laughing and teasing. An entire boatload of construction guys, perched atop sacks of cement, paused in their animated discussion to ogle at a group of pretty girls who were walking along the waterfront.

Xander sat until his butt grew numb, and as the sky began to give the first hints of sunset, he realized he had finally reached a decision. He stood and stretched and headed home.

***

“Where the fuck have you been?” 

Spike had met him just inside the apartment’s front door. Spike was barechested and barefooted and his pants were unbuttoned. His hair was a riot of curls. He looked really agitated, and Xander nearly took a step backwards into the waning sunlight.

“Nowhere. Everywhere. I went for a walk, did some shopping.” He waved the bag from the iPod store a little.

“You’ve been gone for ages!”

“Sorry. I figured you’d still be lolling in bed.” Xander squeezed past Spike, intending to hit the bathroom before checking in on Caron. 

But Spike had other ideas, because he grabbed Xander’s arm and dragged him down the hallway. “Come here,” Spike insisted.

“Here” turned out to be Caron’s room. He was sitting straight up in bed, a huge smile lighting  his face. “Hello, Xander,” he said.

“Hi. So what’s the big deal?”

Spike bounced impatiently on the balls of his feet. “Show him,” he said.

Like a magician doing a particularly amazing trick, Caron drew his arms out from under the blanket. Xander gasped. Where before there had been stumps, both arms were now the normal length and both ended in broad, complete hands. Caron wiggled his fingers and laughed. “Look!”

“I’m . . . I’m looking,” Xander said shakily. He sat down on the edge of the mattress, probably a little more suddenly than he had intended. Caron immediately reached over, brushed his fingers down Xander’s forearm, and then grasped his hand and held on. “How?” Xander asked.

“It was like my tongue. They’d grown back when I woke up.”

Spike added, “He shouted so loud he woke me up. I thought the bloody house was falling down.”

Xander lifted his and Caron’s entwined hands and ran a finger down one of the angel’s blue veins, then back up. Turning their hands slightly, he skimmed down the length of one of his fingers. It was a perfect hand, complete with perfect fingernails that almost looked as if they’d been manicured. The skin was smooth and as pale as the rest of Caron, the palms and fingerpads uncalloused; they were bigger hands than Xander’s and looked very strong.

“Jesus, Caron. This is fantastic! Do they work all right?”

“I think so. I can feel with them, Xander. And I can pick things up—see?” He let go of Xander and reached for the bedside table, feeling for the half-full glass of orange juice. With a small, triumphant flourish, Caron lifted the glass to his lips and took a small sip. “I can drink by myself!”

“This is great!” said Xander. “But why? I mean, what caused it?”

“I don’t know,” Caron answered, not seeming at all perturbed by the lack of explanation.

“What about . . . the rest? Will you heal completely?”

“I don’t know,” the angel repeated. “But even if I don’t . . .  This is so wonderful, Xan. So much more than I had hoped for. Thank you. Thank you both.”

“We didn’t mend you,” Spike said.

“But I didn’t heal until you saved me. I was there for so long and I was— But you saved me and now I’m healed.” Caron smiled at them both, as though his logic was irrefutable.

Spike and Xander looked at each other for a moment, then Spike shrugged. Xander nodded back. Okay. Not worth arguing with Caron about it. Besides, maybe his being safe and clean had contributed to his recovery. Xander reached into the plastic bag at his side. “You grew thumbs just in time, my friend, ’cause I got you this really cool toy.”

[Chapter Fourteen](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/288527.html)   


 

  



	15. Chapter 15

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 14 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  
  


  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001haddf/)  
---  
  
  
  


**Chapter Fourteen**

“I’ve reached a decision.”

As soon as Spike made that announcement, Xander looked startled and slightly guilty, like a young boy who had been caught out. He put his bottle of Heineken down on the kitchen table. “Yeah? Me too.”

“What?”

“You first.”

Spike sighed. “Right then. What we’ve been doing so far . . . it’s bollocks.”

“Um . . . yeah. Okay.”

“Just flailing about with our heads up our arses. We’ll never accomplish anything at this rate.” Spike took a long, satisfying swallow of warmed blood. He was almost out, but a delivery was scheduled for the next day.

“Yeah . . . um . . . not accomplishing anything,” Xander said. “So what did you have in mind?”

“A more direct approach. None of this swanning about with near shaggings and the like.”

“More direct,” Xander replied, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Spike didn’t understand why the boy seemed so hesitant. He might not be the best fighter, but Spike had decided some time ago that Xander was no coward. And Xander was nearly as impatient as Spike was, most of the time.

“Right. I want to get right on top of things,” Spike said.

“Okay . . . you getting on top is good. I can go either way.”

Spike squinted at him in confusion before deciding Xander was spouting more of that nonsense California dialect Spike had once found so incomprehensible. “Good. I’ll finish dressing and then we’ll go pay il ministro a visit.”

“Il ministro?”

“Il ministro dei demoni. Remember? The bloke we’ve come to investigate?” Spike wondered if Xander had taken one too many blows to the head over the years.

Xander’s eye went wide. “Oh! Il ministro! And he’s the top you want to get to.”

“Of course he is, twit. Who else would I be speaking of?”

“Um . . . nothing. Never mind.” Xander shook his head as if he meant to clear it. “Fine, then. We go look him up and see what’s the what.”

“Subtly. Don’t want to tip him off what we’re on about.” Spike pointed at Xander. “Means you keep your mouth shut and I do the talking.”

“Yeah, ’cause you’re always Mr. Subtle.”

“Xander—”

Xander put his hands up. “Fine. Fine. I remain the silent partner.”

Spike nodded and turned toward the bedroom to fetch his shirt. But then he paused and turned back to Xander. “What was yours?”

“Huh?”

“Your decision?”

“Oh.” Xander didn’t meet his gaze. “Nothing. I’ll, um, tell you later.”

“Git,” replied Spike, and went off to dress.

***

“Your angel seems to fancy the toy you brought him.”

Xander stepped around a pair of locals who were standing and mostly blocking the narrow street as they nattered. “Yeah. He can’t see the screen of course—and I dunno if he can read anyway—but at least once we set it up for him he can start and stop it and mess with the volume.”

“What book did you leave him listening to?”

Xander made a noise that sounded suspiciously close to a giggle. “ _Dracula_.”

Spike stopped in his tracks to glare at him. “ _That_ tosser?”

“Hey, I gave him several options and that’s what he picked.”

Spike growled but Xander didn’t look the least bit intimidated. His slightly crooked grin only widened, and Spike wished he could wipe it right off his face. Like with a really good snog. But of course that wasn’t on at all, so he simply spun back around and stomped down the street.

Il ministro had an office not far from Piazza San Marco, on a street with a narrow canal running down the middle. Private boats were docked along the canal and most of the windows bore geraniums or other flowers. Spike imagined the area was quite pretty during the daytime, and even at night it had a quiet elegance. Il ministro’s door was painted deep green and boasted an ornate lion’s head knocker as well as an electric buzzer and a discrete nameplate.

Of necessity, il ministro kept later hours than most public servants, but it was still near the end of his working day. Spike shot Xander a final warning look—the git was still trying not to snigger—and pressed the bell. After what felt like ages, the door creaked open. “Si?” said the handsome woman who stood there. Not a woman, Spike corrected himself. A human half-breed of some kind. Brachen, perhaps.

“We’re here to see il ministro,” Spike announced.

She raised one carefully shaped eyebrow. “Have you an appointment?” Her English was only slightly accented.

“No. But we’ve just arrived in town and we’ve some matters to discuss with him.”

She looked back and forth between Spike and Xander. Xander was at least managing a serious face. He’d also positioned himself very close to Spike and slightly behind him, a position that would suggest to most demons that he belonged to Spike but the relationship was consensual on his part. Spike wondered if Xander had stood like that instinctively or if he was aware of the message it would send.

“Very well,” the woman said. “Please. Come in.”

They found themselves in a vestibule that was probably once very tasteful and refined, but now looked dated and dusty. She gestured to green-upholstered chairs but Spike remained standing and so did Xander. She pretended not to notice. “Whom may I say is calling?”

Spike lifted his chin proudly. “Spike. William the Bloody. And my human.”

She nodded gracefully and disappeared up the stairs, her heels clacking loudly.

Xander wandered about the room a bit, peering at a painting that was too darkened by age to distinguish clearly, reaching for an onyx statue that sat on a little table and then thinking better of it, rubbing nervously underneath the strap of his eyepatch. It made Spike jumpy and he was about to order Xander to stay still when the woman came clicking down the stairs again. “Signor da Ponte will see you now.” She made it sound as if she were doing them a great favor.

Da Ponte’s office was directly opposite the top of the stairs. It had huge, wooden double doors, which the woman opened with a flourish to reveal a room even more past its prime than the vestibule below. Probably the paintings were by someone famous, and the chandelier might be priceless, but they were all in poor shape, as was the threadbare Persian carpet and the enormous mahogany desk. Il ministro sat behind the desk, reminding Spike instantly of a frog prince. He was wide and squishy, with a flat warty face and bulbous eyes, and his skin had an unhealthy greenish tinge. His dyed-black hair was arranged in a bad comb-over. He stared at Spike and Xander, unsmiling.

“What is it you want? I am a very busy man!” His voice was high and reedy, and he didn’t rise or stick his hand out for a shake.

“We’ve just arrived,” Spike said. “Name’s Spike and this is my human.”

“Yes, yes, I know this already. And what sort of demon are you?”

Spike allowed his face to reshape.

Da Ponte suddenly looked much more interested. “Un vampiro!”

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”

“We have not had vampires in Venezia for some time. Perhaps a hundred years.”

Spike wondered if the man was truly unaware that there had indeed been vampires in the city sixty years earlier—for a short time, at least—or whether he was intentionally lying for some obscure reason. In either case, Spike just shrugged. “’M here now. Mean to stay a while.”

“And because you are in my office I assume you understand the rules by which this city is governed?”

“No eating anyone—least, nobody who doesn’t ask nicely.” Spike cast a meaningful leer in Xander’s direction. 

“Some species of demons have difficulty in following this rule. Vampires especially. This is why no vampires for so long.”

“You won’t have problems with me. I’ve a soul.” 

Il ministro’s eyes widened. “Dio mio! A soul! How?”

“Long tale and not especially interesting. Anyway, I reckoned I’d let you know, in case you heard I was in town and decided to stake first and ask questions later.”

“You understand I cannot simply take your word on this matter. We will watch carefully for any signs of . . . comportamento difettoso.”

“Naturally. But you know, I’ve heard some rumors . . .”

Da Ponte puffed up with indignation. “What rumors?”

“Dunno. Perhaps things aren’t as peaceful here as they’re meant to be. A few rogue demons chomping on people. A succubus or two, maybe, luring unwary tourists.”

“I permit no such thing in Venezia! In my city humans and demons get along amichevolmente. No humans are harmed! Ever!”

Spike nodded. “Right then. Well, I’m happy this will be a safe place for me and my boy.”

But il ministro still looked angry. He rose from his chair and waddled to the front side of the desk. He was several inches shorter than Spike and his suit, while expensive, was too small. He smelled bad: unwashed, perhaps ill. He planted himself in front of Xander, who looked mildly alarmed.

“You!” da Ponte said. “It is true you belong to this vampire?”

Xander glanced at Spike as if for permission and then nodded. “Yep. I’m his, lock, stock, and barrel.”

“And you do this of your own free will?”

“I do.”

“Why are you with this demon?”

Xander looked at Spike again and smiled. “The demon thing, not so much of an issue for me. He keeps me safe and he’s fun to hang out with. And he’s a hell of a kisser.”

Spike ducked his head to hide his smile.

After staring at Xander a few more moments, da Ponte turned to Spike. “And you. Why this human? He is not so young and he is . . . damaged.”

“Oi!” Spike replied indignantly. “That’s a battle scar and I’m proud of it. Proud of him. He’s bloody brave and I trust him with my back. And he’s still a right treat in bed.”

Xander didn’t try to disguise his blinding smile, and the slight blush on his cheeks made Spike want to grab him close.

But they were still in il ministro’s office, and the squat man came a few steps closer to Spike and peered up at him suspiciously. “You will change him soon. Make him a vampire. And he will not have a soul.”

Spike did not like to be reminded of the mortality of humans he cared about. So he narrowed his eyes at the man. “I never turned people lightly, not even when I was evil, and I won’t do it at all now. If I turned him . . . wouldn’t be him anymore, would it? Wouldn’t be the bloke I love.”

“But when he begs you? When he realizes he is getting old and you are staying young? When he fears the cold reach of death?”

“Then I’ll tell him he’s mine even when he’s old and wrinkled, and I’ll love him all the same, and I’ll care for him if he can’t care for himself. And I’ll promise him he won’t face death alone.”

Now Xander’s face had gone pale and shocked-looking. But he nodded firmly. “Spike makes a good vampire; most people don’t. I’ll never beg him to turn me.”

Da Ponte looked skeptical, but he backed away and retreated behind his desk. “Very well. Just remember the rules, signor vampiro.”

“Not a bloody problem.”

They left without saying goodbye, and the woman didn’t crack a smile when they swept past her. Back out on the street, they walked for a few blocks in silence. Finally, Xander cleared his throat. “So . . . whatta ya think?”

“He’s lying. Could see it in his face. He knows about the Ulorar. Can’t suss out yet why he’s letting them roam wild. Does he fear something from them or is he using them to some ends?”

“I dunno, but I think the guy is seriously creepy.”

Spike nodded his agreement. He intended to find the nearest pub, but before he’d gotten more than a few yards, Xander had grabbed his arm and hauled him into a street that was so narrow he could have pressed his hands against both walls. There was nothing there except a padlocked door and a few plastic bags full of bottles. “What?” Spike demanded.

Instead of answering, Xander slammed him back against the stone wall and pressed his own body tightly against Spike’s. “What you said to Signor Weirdo back there, about me. Did you mean any of it?”

Spike swallowed. “I wouldn’t turn you.”

Xander waved a hand. “Not that. The other stuff. About my eye, and trusting me, and . . . and the other stuff.”

Spike tried to squirm away, but Xander had him pinned pretty neatly in place. And Xander was _looking_ at him, his handsome face deadly serious. Spike sighed and went limp against the building. “I told you, pet. It’s Caron. He’s—”

“Yeah, yeah. Angel dust. But at this minute, Spike, at this goddamn minute, do you mean what you said to Da Ponte? ’Cause I do.”

Very softly, Spike said, “Yeah.”

“Good. Because remember that decision I mentioned earlier tonight? This is it.”

“What is?”

“You. Me. Us. I decided that even if it’s just Caron, I don’t care. I want you, Spike. I want you right now, and it doesn’t matter why I want you, ’cause it’s how I really feel.”

Spike reached up and stroked Xander’s jaw. “Me as well. And it’s lovely now, but when we’re not near the angel any longer . . .”

“Are you asking whether I’ll still respect you in the morning?”

Spike couldn’t quite suppress a quirk of his lips at that. “I’m more afraid of you siccing your Slayer army on me, actually.” That was a lie. A few girls with stakes was the least of his fears.

“Look, Spike. I don’t know what’s gonna happen tomorrow. Maybe this thing Caron did to us is permanent. Maybe I’ll get killed by a monster. Anything’s possible in my world. But even if my lo—my wanting you wears off, I promise you I won’t regret this. I mean, it doesn’t have to be a thing, does it? We’re guys. Guys have cheap, meaningless sex. Even if we go back to not being able to stand each other, at least we’ll have gotten lucky.” He shook his head. “I haven’t been real lucky lately, Spike.”

Spike closed his eyes, but he couldn’t block out the sensation of Xander against him, the scent of the man, the warm breaths that were puffing against his face. The soul—the stupid, bloody, useless soul—put up an argument. But then Spike laughed. “A vampire trying to convince a human that seduction is morally wrong. That’s irony, Xander.”

Xander leaned in closer, until his lips were almost but not quite touching Spike’s ear. Spike shivered and Xander whispered so quietly Spike could barely hear him, “Screw irony. Screw angels and ministers and slayers and watchers and . . .  Screw _me_ , Spike.”

Spike told the fucking soul to take the night off. And then he turned his head and captured Xander’s mouth in a desperate, hungry kiss.

[Chapter Fifteen](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/289289.html)   


 

 

  



	16. Chapter 16

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 15 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)   


  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h6bgp/)  
---  
  
  
  


**Chapter Fifteen**

Xander had principles. Making out in the middle of a Venetian street? He was okay with that. Gay sex with formerly evil demons? No problem. So not a problem. But public gay demonic sex? That exceeded his boundaries. So, much as he didn’t want to—much as it caused him actual physical pain to do so—Xander pulled his body away from Spike’s. Even in the darkness he could see that Spike’s eyes were wild, that his lips were just a little swollen from their heated kiss. Xander smiled at him. “Race you home.”

It was no contest, of course. Vampire by a mile. Except the vampire kept pausing and looking over his shoulder, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that Xander was still following him. But Xander certainly was, and he didn’t care whether the tourists they passed thought the one-eyed guy with the loony grin was some kind of mental hospital escapee.

He was out of breath by the time he reached the front door, and Spike didn’t help things any by grabbing him and kissing away the last oxygen molecules, so when they stumbled into the apartment itself, Xander felt light-headed and giddy.

Still, he didn’t completely forget himself. “Gonna check in on Caron,” he said, and Spike rolled his eyes but followed him into Caron’s room.

The angel greeted them with his usual blinding smile. He clicked his iPod off and pulled out the earbuds. “You’re nothing like this vampire, Spike,” he announced.

“Course not. He’s a complete twat.”

“I don’t know,” Xander said. “He’s kind of . . . sophisticated, as vampires go. Yeah, okay, there was the whole bug-eating thing—yuck!—but at least he wasn’t so much with the mindless homicide. And he’s a snappy dresser.”

While Spike glared, Caron asked, “He’s real, then? This story is true?”

“He’s real enough, but the book’s rot,” Spike said. “Tosser traded the tale to Stoker, probably for some leftover theater costumes. Old ponce always did love his ruffles and lace. But he made all that shit up—all that nonsense about sleeping in coffins and turning into bats and wolves.”

“You slept in a crypt, Spike,” Xander pointed out.

“Which was far nicer than your basement.”

Xander nodded. “You do have a point.”

Caron was still grinning at them. “I think Spike is a better vampire than Dracula. More interesting.”

“Cheers,” Spike said.

“I don’t think Xander could fall in love with Dracula.”

Spike looked at Xander expectantly, and Xander cleared his throat. “I’m not in lo— Spike and I told you. We're just friends.”

“Friends love one another.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Xander really didn’t want to do this, but he did it anyway. “Caron, you don’t have anything to do with, um, me and Spike, do you?”

Caron frowned. “I’m . . . I’m your friend too. Aren’t I?”

The angel looked so upset and uncertain that Xander sat beside him. “Of course you are. That’s not what I meant. It’s just . . . is it possible that you’re influencing us?”

“I . . . I don’t understand.”

Spike made an impatient noise and he sat down on Caron’s other side. “What the boy means is he and I suddenly can’t get enough of each other. And that’s new. He used to hate me and I was annoyed by him at best. But not now. Is this your doing?”

“I don’t . . . I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to do anything to you.”

Xander patted his shoulder. “We’re not mad at you, not at all. We’re just trying to figure it out.”

“I’m not trying to change you,” Caron said in a near-whisper. “But I’ve never had anyone care for me, not even when— Not even before. I was alone. But now you care for me— You do, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Spike answered gruffly.

“Perhaps when people are close to me I do something to them. I don’t know.” Caron’s troubled expression smoothed a little. “But isn’t it good? Isn’t it better to love each other instead of hating?”

Spike surprised Xander by nodding and saying, “Yeah. It is better.”

Caron smiled again. “Good. Then I think I will return to Dracula now.”

Xander looked over at Spike, who wore a bemused expression, and then back at the angel. Impulsively, Xander leaned forward and kissed Caron’s forehead. Caron looked momentarily startled, and then his smile cranked up so much Xander wished he was wearing sunglasses.

***

In their own bedroom, Xander and Spike eyed each other warily. It wasn’t as if their ardor had cooled, but now a certain awkwardness had developed between them, like a hippo in a tutu. 

“Caron’s right,” Xander finally announced.

“That I’m better than Dracula? Of course he is.”

“Well, that too. But I meant about loving being better than hating. Hating takes a lot of energy, you know? Like I used to hate my parents, because— Well, you know. You saw them.”

Spike snorted. “Not worth the space they took.”

“Yeah, I guess. But a while ago, I just sort of let that go. I haven’t talked to them in years, but I don’t hate them. I feel sorry for them. They have nothing and they never will.”

Nodding in agreement, Spike said, “Yeah. They lost a good son.”

“Thanks, Spike,” Xander said, smiling a little shyly.

Spike gave him a long look. “You know, I never really hated you.” He shrugged. “Didn’t think enough about you for such a strong emotion.”

“Thanks. I guess. And you—I guess I had only a sort of general dislike for you, like I had for all the things that tried to kill me. Until the thing with Buffy . . .”

Spike looked away. “Yeah.”

“But I got over that, too, eventually. I mean, you pretty much made up for it with the soul-getting and the world-saving, and anyway, my own track record’s not sparkly clean either.”

“So by the time I showed up in London . . .”

Xander smiled. “You were down to moderate irritation. And . . . maybe a side helping of jealousy.”

That seemed to surprise Spike. “Over Anya or Buffy?”

“Nah. Because . . . you’re the cool guy, Spike. You’re dead and you’re still the cool guy with the sneer and the attitude and the . . . the cheekbones, and I’m just the clumsy dork. Eugene with the pocket protector and the high-waters and the glasses with the tape in the middle.” He pointed at his eye patch.

Spike finally approached him then, stepping slowly—prowling, really—in a way that made Xander’s throat go dry. When he was close enough, Spike reached up and slipped the patch off Xander’s head, then dropped it onto the floor. He continued to stand almost but not quite touching Xander. “You’ve outgrown the clumsy puppy stage,” he purred, “but I’ll wager I can still make you roll over and beg.”

Xander grabbed Spike around the middle and yanked him closer. “I think we can lose the dog analogy, Spike.” And when Spike raised an eyebrow, no doubt in preparation for a comeback, Xander silenced him in their now-traditional fashion: with a kiss.

Kisses were generally nice, Xander thought, and he’d recently learned that Spike kisses were even nicer. But this one—when they were in their shared bedroom with the promise of imminent nudity in the air—this one was especially good. Good enough that it was almost enough, except that Spike’s hands had made their way to Xander’s butt, where they were squeezing. And what do you know? Xander’s hands had done the same, and Spike’s ass felt wonderful, even with his jeans in the way, and Xander liked the way Spike felt in his arms: not too big, but sort of tight and sleek and solid. The two of them fit together well, Xander thought.

Spike finally pulled away a little and smiled at him. “Works better without the kit.”

“That it does.” And Xander reached over and tugged Spike’s shirt out of his jeans, which seemed to take the vampire by surprise, but he lifted his arms and allowed Xander to draw the shirt over his head. Xander dropped the shirt—on top of his eyepatch, in fact—and slowly smoothed a palm over Spike’s chest.

“That feels lovely,” Spike said. His eyes were closed in pleasure. “The heat of you.”

“There’s more heat where that came from,” Xander said, and dropped to his knees.

Getting Spike’s jeans unbuttoned was a bit of a challenge. They were tight to begin with and now the bulge in the front made them even tighter, plus Xander’s hands were shaking a little with excitement. It didn’t help matters that a careless brush of Xander’s fingers against that bulge made Spike groan and throw his head back, exposing his long, vulnerable neck. But eventually Xander won the battle of the buttons, and he pushed the jeans over Spike’s narrow hips and down his lean thighs. 

Naturally, Spike did not wear underwear. His cock was fully erect, the pinkish head peeking out from the foreskin. He had a neat thatch of pubic hair, light brown and springy, and his balls were nicely proportioned. Xander licked his lips, then decided there were better things he could be licking. He leaned forward and let the crown of Spike’s cock slip into his mouth.

“Ooohhh,” Spike said, grabbing Xander’s hair with both hands. Not hard—more like he needed it for balance. 

Xander nuzzled against Spike’s flat belly and inhaled deeply. Spike smelled good. Xander didn’t have a superhuman nose or anything, but he could detect cinnamon soap and a slightly bitter saltiness. Slightly hesitantly, he reached up to trace his fingers under Spike’s hipbone, down the crease of his leg, in between his thighs—

And abruptly, Xander was grabbed by the biceps and hauled to his feet. “Keep that up and the show’ll be over before you’re even undressed,” Spike said.

“Yeah? What about demon powers?”

“Helpless before you, pet. Besides, it’s been ages for me . . .”

Spike stepped out of his jeans gracefully. While Xander admired the view, he allowed Spike to take a turn undressing him, only batting hands away when the naughty touching got a little too much to take. 

In Xander’s experience with other men, which hadn’t been all that extensive, and with women, which was even more limited, once everyone was naked things tended to move along pretty quickly. But not this time, because he and Spike spent a long time just standing there, each of them delicately touching the other here and there. A brief stroke down a shoulder blade, a feathery kiss on a cheek, the barest pressure of a finger pad upon a hardened nipple. Spike seemed especially taken with the line of dark hair that lead south from Xander’s navel, whereas Xander was fascinated with the preternatural silkiness of the skin on Spike’s butt.

Xander wasn’t sure how long they spent like that, but eventually and without words, they agreed to move over to the bed, where they lay beside one another. Spike wrapped his hand around Xander’s cock—his hand wasn’t as cold as Xander expected—and Xander reciprocated, and they stroked and kissed and—

“Oh, fuck!”

Spike leaned in for another kiss. “That’s the idea, love.”

“Yeah . . . but no lube,” Xander said breathlessly.

“Olive oil.”

As Xander was trying to fire enough brain cells to think that through, Spike whispered huskily into his ear. “You shag me, then.”

“Great idea.” Another kiss, exquisite touches. “But still no lube.”

“’Gelus never used it. I mend quick . . . don’t mind a bit of pain.” The lust in Spike's expression turned a little sly. “Or you could use saliva . . .”

Xander smiled and pushed at Spike’s flank. Spike took the unsubtle hint and rolled over onto all fours, his legs spread in invitation. Xander wanted to cackle like the villain in a bad movie, because at least for the time being, all that beauty before him was his, all his. _Mwah-hah-hah-hah!_

Spike looked back over his shoulder. “Need sodding instructions, Xan?” Despite the bravado, his voice trembled.

Xander positioned himself between Spike’s thighs, bent low, and touched the tip of his tongue to Spike’s tight, rosy bud. Spike twitched, sighed, and pressed back, and soon Xander’s tongue was actually inside, stretching rigid muscles. Spike tasted good inside, too, and his channel was silky smooth. Xander was enjoying himself, but soon his tongue got a little tired, and besides that, Spike was thrusting backwards as much as he could, moaning sexily, clearly ready for more. As was Xander.

So with a little more shuffling, Xander rose up on his knees. He set one hand on Spike’s lower back and used the other to guide his eager cock to Spike’s cleft and then slightly inside. Spike hissed at the intrusion but didn’t try to move away. “Didn’t get shortchanged with tackle, did you?”

“One of my few natural gifts.”

“Well, bloody share it!”

Xander laughed and pushed himself inside. It must have hurt—Spike was so tight that Xander felt kind of chafed and squished—but Spike didn’t seem to mind, and as far as Xander was concerned, Christ! It hurt so good. After a few careful strokes, the path became a little looser. Xander suspected that some of Spike’s blood was probably helping with the slipperiness, but neither of them was going to catch anything from the other, and blood as a lube did seem appropriate under the circumstances.

“Fuck,” Spike groaned.

“That’s the idea,” said Xander, giving an extra little wiggle to his thrust.

“Feels . . . bloody brilliant . . . like that—yeah, that. More.”

“Knew you’d be a pushy bottom.”

Spike turned his head again to grin at Xander, but after that there was no more talk, at least none of it coherent. There was, however, swearing and groaning and huffing and puffing, and then Spike grabbed his own cock and began to work it urgently, and he actually howled as he came, the sound seeming to echo all around Venice.

Xander was too far gone to care. As the interior muscles clenched and rippled around him, he pistoned his hips, collapsed over Spike’s knobby-spined back, and bit the tender nape of Spike’s neck. Then he came too, but the noises he made were muffled by the mouthful of Spike’s flesh.

Moments later, Xander had withdrawn from Spike and fallen back onto the mattress with a loud huff. He felt warm and melty, as if every bone in his body had been turned to taffy, and his balls were still tingling wonderfully.

Spike collapsed too, only he ended up on his side, staring at Xander. “You _bit_ me.”

“Um . . . yeah. Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“Course not. Felt lovely. Vampire, yeah? But . . . you bit me.”

“More irony?” 

Spike tickled Xander’s ribs a little, making him squirm. But Xander was too tired for play so instead he grabbed Spike’s hand and kissed it. “I didn’t mean to. It was . . . There was this hyena spirit thing, a long time ago, and I pretty much got over it. But there were a couple side effects, I guess. And you taste good.”

Spike regarded him a while longer before nodding once and then tipping over so he was half on top of Xander. Xander wrapped his arms around Spike’s waist, which felt nice. Even Spike’s spiky hair felt nice. “I guess we can clean up in the morning,” Xander mumbled.

“Right. And next time it’s my turn to bite.”

Xander fell asleep wondering exactly when a sentence like that had become a promise instead of a threat.

[Chapter Sixteen](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/289700.html)   


  



	17. Chapter 17

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 16 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h7frc/)  
---  
  
  
  


**Chapter Sixteen**

Xander was warm and slightly squishy underneath him. Spike didn’t mind the snoring, or the beard stubble that scratched at his face. He didn’t mind the dried come on his belly, which was making him itch a bit, or even the dried fluids that had transferred from Xander’s dick to Spike’s thigh as they slept. He certainly didn’t mind the lingering soreness that reminded him how thoroughly his arse had been used the night before. But what he most especially didn’t mind was the way Xander’s arms were wrapped tightly about him, hugging him close, as if Spike were some kind of undead teddy bear.

He could barely remember the last time he’d slept with someone. Not shagged a stranger—he’d done that now and then over the years. And not shared a mattress with a chaste companion. But actually slept with a lover, sated and safe and snug. Xander had been right—it didn’t matter if they came to their senses later, when Caron’s influence wore off; right now this was real and it was good.

They slept late. Sometimes Xander snuffled and shifted a bit under Spike’s weight, waking Spike from his doze, but Xander never attempted to extricate himself, and his grip around Spike never loosened completely. Spike didn’t even bother to open his eyes, because a part of him was afraid that if he did, everything would disappear like a dream, like a mirage.

But then he got a creepy crawly feeling, as if something was stalking him. He went very still and realized there were two hearts beating in tandem, two pairs of lungs drawing air in and letting it out. Slowly he rolled over and opened his eyes.

And barely held back a scream.

A man was standing beside the bed. A tall man with a muscular build, much like Angel’s, and with two good feet, an uncut cock that was slightly on the small side but nicely plump, a full head of chestnut hair that cascaded in soft curls over wide shoulders, and an ear-to-ear smile.

“Bloody hell!” Spike exclaimed, making Xander startle awake.

 Xander did scream, which hurt Spike’s ears, and they both scrambled awkwardly off the mattress.

“I’m sorry,” Caron said, but his smile didn’t dim and Spike was certain he wasn’t sorry at all. “But I woke up, and . . .”

“And more of you grew back!” Xander finished, rather unnecessarily.

Caron wiggled his toes and grinned unselfconsciously. His eyes were still missing and so were his wings, but neither omission seemed to trouble him at the moment. “It feels so good to stand and walk! It’s been so long.”

“Are you okay?” Xander asked. “You look strong enough, but maybe you shouldn’t overdo it.”

“I _feel_ strong, Xander. For the first time in centuries I feel strong. Because of you two.”

Xander and Spike exchanged glances.  Spike said, “We’re happy for you, mate, but I don’t expect we’ve anything—”

“But you did! Can’t you feel it? It’s . . . You love each other, and you even love me a little, I think, and it’s like . . . like a feast.”

Xander rubbed at his missing eye. “So you’re saying . . . Spike and I have sex and you get your parts back?”

Comprehension dawned for Spike. “’T’s not the shagging, Xan. It’s the emotions. He feeds off them, the way a succubus feeds off sex or I feed off blood.”

The angel nodded enthusiastically. “It’s wonderful!”

But Xander didn’t look convinced. “Does that mean he’s gonna drain us?”

“No . . . ,” Spike said thoughtfully. “I don’t reckon he will. Do you _feel_ drained?”

 “Um . . . no. Actually, I feel pretty good. Really good.” Xander cocked his head and squinted his eye. “Best I’ve felt in . . . well, since I can remember, in fact.”

Spike knew what he meant, because Spike felt the same. The closest approximation to the feeling he had now was the way it had been when he was newly arisen, free from society’s tight constraints and feeling invincible. But this was even better, really, because the soft bits of William that had always remained inside him knew that nobody was being harmed now. In fact, William was hugging himself and chortling with glee, the daft pillock.

Caron had achieved the impossible by brightening his smile two notches. “When you give your love to someone, and it’s someone right, it doesn’t deplete you. It’s . . . kindness, love, caring . . . the more of those things you give away, the richer you become.”

It was a pretty thought, but Spike wasn’t completely convinced. “What if it’s not real love?”

Caron padded over. His body seemed twice as wide as Spike's and towered over him by a good half a foot, but there was nothing threatening about him. He pressed a huge hand to Spike’s bare chest, just to the left of center. “Doesn’t it _feel_ real?” he asked.

Spike’s heart thumped. Weakly, yes, but it gave three good beats, and that felt so bloody good, as if a wound he wasn’t even aware of had finally mended. “Yeah,” Spike whispered.

The angel bent down and brushed soft lips to Spike’s cheek. Then he stood straight again. “I finished _Dracula_ last night. I think I’d like to listen to another book now, please. But maybe—maybe I could listen in the other room? The one with the talking machine.”

Xander laughed. “It’s called a television and it will rot your brain, but sure. And now that you’re mobile—do you want to go for a walk outside later?”

Caron went very still. “I can . . . I can go outside?”

“You’re not our prisoner,” Spike answered, settling his hand on Caron’s upper arm. “Can go wherever you fancy. Or stay inside, if you’d rather.”

“I can . . .” Caron’s breathing had grown rapid and a little uneven. “I can walk around. Smell things. Hear the city.”

Xander walked over and touched Caron’s other arm. “You can. And you can try gelato, which I have a feeling you’re gonna like.”

“And you'll you go with me? Please?”

“Of course,” Xander said. “We’ll be your tour guides. Except . . . um . . . I’m thinking before we go, some clothing would be of the good. Not sure about Italian laws on angelic nudity and I’m fresh out of fig leaves. Tell you what. You spend the day getting acquainted with the talking machine, and tonight Spike and I will go out and find the local Big & Tall Celestial Being store. By tomorrow you’ll be set for your public debut.”

Still completely bare, Xander walked Caron out of the room. Spike watched his lover’s arse lasciviously and schemed to attack him the moment he returned.

***

“Spike, generally the point of showers is to get clean.”

Spike waggled his eyebrows. “Not a problem, love. See? The water washes everything away.”

Xander’s head lolled back and thunked against the tile, at the same time as his hips bucked forward into Spike’s grip. “Ungh,” he said.

“Now, there’s the spirit.” Spike dropped to his knees. “Ever had a blow job from someone who doesn’t need to breathe?”

Spike chuckled as Xander’s eye widened and his jaw dropped. And then, in one long, smooth movement, Spike took Xander’s cock between his lips and swallowed it down.

“Oh, holy mother of God,” Xander blasphemed. He rested his palms on Spike’s soap-slippery shoulders, but as Spike began to move his head up and down, Xander’s hands convulsed spastically. Spike thought happily to himself that he’d bear bruises from Xander’s fingers for several hours at least.

Once upon a time, Spike had been very well trained at giving head. Before a night of feeding and mayhem—and sometimes after as well—Angelus liked to sprawl in an armchair with his flies undone and with Spike (who was still William then) kneeling naked between his legs. Dru would be having one of her tea parties, cheerfully serving eyeballs and innards to broken porcelain dolls, and Darla would be reading while minions fussed with her hair. But there would be Angelus and William, and ’Gelus would ram his club of a cock down William’s throat, and he’d grip William’s hair as firmly as death. Sometimes he’d force William’s head up and down, fucking himself while William choked. But more often he’d simply sit there, holding William in place, watching the tears trickle out the corners of William’s eyes and rumbling warnings of what he’d do if he so much as imagined a tooth on his dick.

At first William had fought. But he’d been only a fledge not yet come into his own power, and his beloved Drusilla had only laughed at his struggles as if he were a performer in some sort of pantomime. So eventually he had given in, enduring the discomfort and indignity, somewhat relieved that at least Angelus wasn’t fucking him raw or lashing the skin from his back. But then an odd thing happened: William began to enjoy sucking Angelus’s dick. He’d realized that it gave him a strange sort of power. With a swipe of his tongue or the vibration of his throat he could make the powerful vampire moan and shudder. With a few more enthusiastic swallows he could make Angelus shout curses in Gaelic. Eventually, he could cause his sire to go bleary-eyed and have to adjust his trousers, simply by sticking out the point of his tongue and licking his own lips. It was slightly heady to have that kind of influence, and besides, it made Darla seethe with jealousy—jealousy she usually took out on Angelus’s arse.

Furthermore, while ’Gelus rarely allowed William to come when he fucked him, the older vampire tended to lose track of such things when he was being sucked. So, Spike began to urgently wank himself while he gave head, and as a result he’d get hard the moment Angelus unbuttoned his trousers and motioned him over.

Angelus was gone and not truly mourned by anyone; he’d been replaced by a human with the beginnings of middle-aged spread and a burgeoning business selling scribbles to tourists. But Spike still remembered how to please with his mouth, and now he enjoyed it even more because it was his choice, and because he loved the man he was pleasing.

It didn’t take long before Xander was crying out, thumping his head back again, and spurting his thick, bleachy spend into Spike’s mouth. Xander’s knees gave out and Spike had to catch him as he began to side down the wall.

“If they had a blow job Olympics, you’d be a gold medalist for sure.” Xander’s voice was slightly hoarse.

“Ta,” Spike grinned. He reached over and turned off the tap. “Hand us a towel, love.”

“But you—”

Spike gestured at his softening cock. “Taken care of. Just the taste of you.”

“Oh,” Xander replied, still looking slightly dazed. “So if you had some of my blood . . .”

Spike moved in and nuzzled at Xander’s wet neck. “When I bite you, we’ll both come so hard we’ll be seeing stars,” he whispered.

“Ohhh.”

Spike laughed evilly and fetched his towel himself.

***

It was raining softly that evening. Spike hoped it wouldn’t become a downpour that would flood the campos and streets, requiring platforms to be laid out over the busier bits so people could walk without requiring hip-waders. But the drizzle was fine. Better than, in fact, because it had chased many of the tourists inside, leaving the pavement unusually clear.

“So, what size do you think Caron is?” Xander asked. He was watching a bloke at a booth pack away scarves and watches and souvenir barbeque aprons featuring the genitalia of Michelangelo’s David.

“Why? You reckon he’d fancy an I Heart Venezia t-shirt?”

Xander rolled his eye. “No. But eventually we’re going to find a clothing store where everything doesn’t cost a zillion Euro, and then some clue of his size would be helpful. How do you say ‘enormous’ in Italian?”

Spike shrugged and, silently daring the few passersby to even think homophobic thoughts, looped his arm through Xander’s. Xander looked surprised for a moment and then relaxed. “Guess you don’t mind being seen with me in public.”

“You’re my pet human, remember?”

“Uh-huh. And what does that make you to me?”

Spike smirked. “Master will do nicely.”

“And do masters generally give their pets mind-numbing blow jobs? Or let them top?”

“Masters can do whatever they bloody want to,” Spike replied with a grin.

A few minutes later they found a shop displaying reasonable prices in the window. The woman inside spoke limited English, but with much gesticulating and pointing and motioning of dimensions, they were able to convey their needs. She was a motherly sort, and when she sussed out that Spike and Xander were a couple she had to visibly restrain herself from pinching their cheeks. She didn’t hesitate, though, to fuss and coo and call them pet names in Italian. And besides the t-shirts and boxers and trousers they bought for Caron, she managed to talk them into a deep green shirt for Xander that brought out the corresponding flecks in his hazel eye, and an azure silk one for Spike. Xander chose a pair of tennis shoes for Caron as well, and a package of gray socks.

Xander had just pulled out his wallet to pay for their purchases when his pocket began to play the Beach Boys song. Xander sighed and handed some cash to the saleslady.

“Aren’t you going to answer that, pet?”

“I’ll call him back when I have a big glass of beer in my hand.”

“Arrivederci!” the smiling shopkeeper called out as they left. Spike made Xander carry the parcels—after all, it wouldn’t do to have a master toting things himself.

The rain had stopped while they were shopping. Now, they strolled along as if they were on holiday, and Xander ignored two more impromptu concerts from his trousers. When they spied a bacaro, they ducked inside. The place had rough wooden tables with benches, exposed ceiling beams, and copper pans hanging on the walls. While Xander went to scope out the plates of cicchetti, Spike ordered him a glass of prosecco and some brunello for himself,

“They have octopus on toast,” Xander announced when he sat down. “Tentacly goodness. Hey! Champagne!” he said when he saw his wine.

“Prosecco,” Spike corrected. “Philistine.”

“Hey, not so long ago I didn’t drink anything that didn’t come in a can. Give me some time.” 

They clinked their glasses together in a toast, and Xander sipped his and made happy noises while Spike ordered some food. The waiter came back right away with a plate of sarde in saor and a bowl of meatballs. “Yum!” Xander enthused, and reached for the nearer plate with his fork.

“Gonna ring the Watcher?” Spike asked.

“Yeah. I guess so. After I get some food in me.”

“Why the hesitation?”

“’Cause . . . I dunno.” Xander took another meatball, chewed, and swallowed. “If I tell him what’s going on he’ll be all ‘Do be careful’ and ‘Perhaps I should send someone else.’ It’s like I’m still a 15-year-old loser.”

Spike ate a sardine. “Parents have a difficult time acknowledging when their children have grown.”

“He’s not— Okay. I get your point. But still.”

“And he cares about you.”

“Yeah. I know.” Down went another meatball, followed by a fish. “But I’m all growed up and I’m not a delicate flower and I wish he didn’t make me feel like a . . . a naughty schoolboy.”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “Naughty schoolboy. Now, that’s a notion I can support.”

“You or me?”

“Dunno. Been ages since I’ve been turned over someone’s knee—”

Xander’s heart sped up, his cheeks flushed slightly, and his pupil dilated.

Spike continued, “—but your bum would be lovely after a nice caning, I’ll wager.”

“We are so heading straight home after this!”

Spike grinned. But then he sobered a bit. “Will you tell him about us?”

He expected Xander to say no at once, or at least to stutter out excuses for secrecy. Instead, Xander cocked his head. “Would you mind if I did?”

“What do I care what that tosser Rupert thinks?”

“He’d probably tell Buffy.”

“Xan, my torch for her guttered out when I burned to ashes. She’s— I’ll always care for her. She’s a hell of a girl. But I’m no good for her and she’s not the one I’m aching for, pet.”

Xander nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Okay.”

Spike was taken aback. “So you will then?”

“Probably. I don’t believe in secret romances and I’m not ashamed of us.” He popped the last meatball in his mouth. “But Giles will probably threaten to stage an intervention. Buffy, too maybe. Possibly even Willow.”

“And how will you respond?”

“Tell ’em to take a hike. It’s not really their business. None of them ever approved of Anya either, but it’s not like they’ve made stellar choices all around. Remember Kennedy? Willow stuck with her for over a year. Ugh. And did you know Giles once had a fling with Ethan Rayne? Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth.”

Spike snorted. “The bloke who turned him into a Fyarl?”

“Among other dastardly deeds.”

“So compared to him . . .”

Xander smiled. “Compared to anyone, Spike, you’re a hell of a catch.”

Xander’s trousers rang once more as they enjoyed second glasses of wine. Then Xander paid and they walked outside into the slightly chill air. They strolled a few blocks to a deserted campo, where Xander sat on a bench and pulled out his phone. Spike wandered over to the canal that bordered the square on one side. He plucked a flower from a vine growing on a nearby wall, then climbed the little bridge and leaned over the railing, gazing down at the sluggish green water. Of course he could still hear every word of Xander’s conversation, but at least this gave his boy the illusion of privacy. Spike smiled to himself. _His boy_. Well, for now at any rate, and Spike could be almost satisfied with that.

[Chapter Seventeen](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/289845.html)   


  



	18. Chapter 18

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 17 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](../../../tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

**Chapter Seventeen**

“Hey, Giles.”

“Xander! Are you injured? Is something wrong? I’ve been trying—”

“I know. I was eating dinner.”

There was a long, judgmental silence on the other end of the phone, which Giles finally ended with a sigh. “Yes, well I am sorry to disturb your no-doubt gourmet repast—”

“Can we just skip the sarcasm part and go straight to the reason you called? Unless sarcasm _was_ the reason you called, in which case carry on.”

“Xander, I—” Another heavy sigh. “Very well. I was hoping for some kind of report on il ministro, and on the angel as well.”

“Nothing much up with da Ponte. We went and talked to him yesterday and he’s pretty much a creep and we’re pretty sure he knows what’s going on, but we don’t know yet if he’s masterminding and if so, why.”

Xander could just barely make out a tiny _scratch-scritch_ on the other end. Great. Giles was taking notes. Xander wondered what he’d write when they got to the interesting part.

“You’ll be investigating further?” Giles asked.

“That’s my job, isn’t it?”

“And the angel. I’ve—”

“Caron, Giles. His name is Caron. He never had a name before and it’s really important to him, so let’s try to use it.”

“Very well. Caron. I’ve been doing some research on angels but to be honest, not much information is available. It’s a rare thing for one to come to earth.”

“Wasn’t voluntary on his part.”

“I know.” 

Xander glanced over at Spike, who was standing on the small bridge, gazing contemplatively down into the water. The clouds had cleared enough for the moon to shine through, and it illuminated Spike’s hair and pale skin in a way that made it instantly clear that he wasn’t quite human. 

“Have you gathered any additional details from Caron, Xander?”

“I think he already told us everything he knows. He’s spent most of his time here as a statue, Giles, and the rest in a gutter. Not the best ways to learn things.”

“I’m trying to see if I can determine the identity of the person who . . . sculpted him. That may be useful to know.”

“Okay.” Up on the bridge, Spike was dropping flower petals into the canal, one by one. “But there is one other thing,” Xander said. “This morning, Caron grew more parts back.”

“He . . . what?”

“His feet and his dick, Giles. He can walk and he can . . .  Anyway, they grew back. Overnight. And he thinks he knows why.”

“And would you care to enlighten me?”

Xander made a face in response to the wording, even though he knew Giles couldn’t help it. Sentences like that flowed straight out of his mouth, much the same way that Xander was fluent in smart-ass. “Caron thinks he’s healing because of love.”

“Pardon me?”

“Because of . . .  Look. We think that he feeds off love. Which kinda makes sense, him being an angel and all. It’s like . . . like Tinker Bell. People think happy thoughts around Caron and he . . . well, he can’t fly ’cause his wings haven’t grown back, but he gets better. Stronger and more whole, like a vamp drinking blood. Only Caron doesn’t hurt anyone, we’ve figured that out too. It’s just, love is in the air and everyone’s good.”

There was an especially long pause while Giles took this in. “Where is he getting this . . . this love?”

“Well, we kinda like the big lug. He’s sweet, Giles. Sort of . . . innocent. The smallest things make him so happy, and it kind of breaks your heart.” Spike had run out of petals, so now he simply leaned on the railing, head and hands hanging low. “And there’s something else,” Xander added, and Spike turned his head in Xander’s direction.

 “Yes?” Giles said.

“Me and Spike. We’re . . . we’re kind of a thing now.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m falling in love with him. And I’m pretty sure the vice is versa’d.”

“You’re . . .  Would you repeat that, please? It sounded for all the world as if you said—”

“It sounded exactly like it was,” said Xander. “Love, Giles. Adoration, lust, passion, ardor, devotion. He’s still kind of a pain in the ass now and then, but now he’s _my_ pain in the ass.”

Spike was smiling at him. Xander could just make out the glint of white teeth. And several hundred miles away, he imagined that Giles was taking off his glasses and probably rubbing his forehead. Maybe eyeing his bottle of scotch longingly.

“Xander, I realize you’ve been . . . well, you’ve been lonely, I expect. I understand. And Spike can be quite charming when he wishes to be and, well, he’s handsome enough and—”

“Don’t,” said Xander firmly. “Just don’t. I know exactly what Spike is—I was there for some of the gory details, wasn’t I?—and he knows exactly what I am, and we’re both grown-ups and . . . and this is just the way it is. And I don’t know if we’ll be forever—hell, I might get killed tomorrow—but we’re now, and we’re good. It’s . . . love, Giles. Love is a lot better than hate, isn’t it?”

Spike had been walking over to him, and as Xander waited for a reply, Spike wrapped his arms around Xander and leaned his head against the side of Xander’s face that wasn’t taken up by an iPhone. And although Xander hoped Giles managed to get himself into Supportiveville—or at least its suburbs—the knowledge that he’d made Spike happy was much more important than what Giles or anybody else thought.

Giles cleared his throat. “I can’t say I expected this, or that I understand it. And I’m going to have a few stiff drinks when we ring off. But you’re right, Xander. Love is a precious thing and there’s too little of it in this world. Whatever Spike’s faults are—and there are many. A great many—I do know that his love is a powerful thing.”

Spike exhaled, long and low, and his cool breath tickled the hairs on the side of Xander’s face.

“Good night, Giles. I’ll let you know when we learn more,” Xander said.

“Good night, Xander.” The line went dead.

Xander must have stuffed the phone in his pocket again and put down the bags of clothing, because suddenly his hands were full only of Spike, and his mouth was full of Spike too, and there they were, making out in the middle of a square in Venice under a laughing moon.

***

Really, Xander should have known. Because it was the story of his life: whenever he or anyone he knew got to a place where they were really happily in love, something awful happened. Somebody got shot or lost his soul or was killed by monsters. Every time. It was like his world was a story written by a sadistic author who could never get a date in high school.

So now here Xander was, happy with Spike at his side, and his mouth still tasting nicely of vampire, and his dick daydreaming fondly of uses for the lube they’d picked up at a farmacia. And Spike was strutting along as if the world were his, humming something that was probably a song with a lot of “fucks” in the lyrics, and that originally had probably been sung by someone with a safety pin through his eyebrow. Xander had made a sort of public declaration of his feelings for Spike and, contrary to expectations, Giles had not had a cow—not even a kitten. Giles might even help convince Xander’s other friends that Spike-lovin’ did not portend an apocalypse. What’s more, an angel was waiting for them back at their apartment, a real flesh-and-blood angel who had considerably more flesh than when they'd first found him. Caron was healing, and even if he never regained all his missing parts, at least he could probably have a good existence with the ones he had now.

In other words, Xander was happy. His life was going as well as it ever had been. So naturally he and Spike were attacked by a pair of big, ugly demons.

It happened not far from their place, as they rounded the corner of a building and stepped into a small, irregularly shaped space that was too small to be a square and too wide to be a street. Xander had just been wondering what book Caron might like next, when there was a sound like an angry cat, but louder, and then two huge things jumped out of the shadows. Xander had just enough time to recognize them—Ulorar, of course—before he and Spike took a defensive stance back-to-back. Xander dropped the shopping bags and pulled the knife from his boot, but the blade was barely free before the demons were on them.

Ulorar had slimy orangey skin and small horns in unexpected places, but their dermatological issues were the least of Xander’s problems, because the fuckers were also nearly seven feet tall and built like linebackers with steroid-dispensing coaches, and they had gnarled fangs and long, sharp fingernails.

“Go home!” Spike yelled, ducking a heavily clawed hand. “I’ll manage this.”

Xander kicked at where he thought a knee might be. “Like hell I will.”

Spike growled, whether at Xander or the attackers Xander couldn’t tell, but that was all the time they had for argument anyway. Xander stabbed at the middle of his demon’s chest and the knife went in to the hilt, but the demon barely seemed to notice. It reared slightly back, wrenching the embedded knife from Xander’s grip, and took a swing at Xander’s head, almost knocking him to the ground.

But Xander had been conked in the head too many times to count, and he was well used to dealing with the effects thereof. He managed to keep his feet and grab the knife back out of the Ulorar. A gout of sticky pea-soup-colored fluids came with it. Xander hoped that Ulorar juice wasn’t toxic.

Spike had moved over to Xander’s blind side, and Xander couldn’t take his attention away from his own opponent long enough to see what was going on, but there was much grunting and swearing, and Xander thought he could smell the copper tang of blood. “Spike!” he yelled, dancing back from another head blow. “Okay?”

“Right as rain,” Spike called back, then huffed as something knocked the air from his lungs.

Xander reminded himself that Spike didn’t need to breathe anyhow. He stabbed at the Ulorar again, this time slicing open the side of its face. That left its skin hanging in a big flap, which was gross, and also pissed the demon off big-time. It roared and swung again, this time impaling Xander’s upper arm with its claws. Xander howled and tried to pull away, but it bent down and aimed its sharp face at Xander’s. Fortunately, Xander hadn’t lost either his weapon or his presence of mind. He thrust with the blade, this time stabbing it neatly into one beady demon eye—because Xander knew from personal experience that when someone takes out your eye, the fight pretty much goes right out of you.

And that obviously worked with Ulorar, too. It screamed and disentangled itself from Xander, which meant he screamed, too, but at least his arm was now demon-free. As the creature tried to cover its wounded face with its hands—giving itself several nasty gouges in the process—Xander went for the gold and stabbed the other eye.

It worked. The Ulorar collapsed to the ground with a weird clattering noise that made Xander wonder if it had armor under its clothes. And then Xander spun around, knife held high, just in time to see a red and green-splashed Spike pretty much twist the head off the other monster.

Spike and Xander simply stood there a moment, panting. Then Xander dropped the knife. “Wrong colors,” he mumbled. “Not Christmas yet.” The world was suddenly fuzzy and dim. Xander’s legs turned traitor and refused to hold him anymore. Fortunately, Spike darted forward and caught him. 

Xander blinked up at his lover’s gory face. “My hero.” He grinned as he said it. And then he fainted dead away.

[Chapter Eighteen](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/290588.html)   


 

  



	19. Chapter 19

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 18 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h9gtp/)  
---  
  
  
  


**Chapter Eighteen**

Spike had faced, more than once in his existence, the broken and bloodied body of someone he loved, and he would have been happy to go immortally onward without ever being faced with it again. But since when did the ruddy Powers give a fig what he wanted? 

He should have taken Xander straight to hospital. But that would have involved questions that were impossible to answer, and in any case, Spike hadn’t any idea where the nearest hospital was. So he scooped his unconscious lover into his arms and carried him home. He left the demons where they lay—one was dead and the other nearly so, and as far as Spike was concerned they were someone else’s problem now. But getting into the flat with an armload of wounded Xander, that was Spike’s problem, and a thorny one at that. He had to juggle boy and keys and hope he didn’t drop either of them. It didn’t help that Spike himself was injured. Several hefty chunks of flesh had been scooped from his torso, his nose was broken, and he suspected he’d chipped a fang.

Luckily, his vampiric grace was marginally intact, and he got the door open without mishap. The door to the flat itself was a bit trickier, but he caught Xander just as the man's body was sliding from his grasp, and then he staggered inside.

Split seconds after the door slammed, and before Spike could make his way down the hall to their bedroom, Caron appeared. He was still naked, of course, and he hadn’t regenerated any additional bits, and he looked as distressed as Spike felt. “You’re hurt!” the angel cried. “You and Xander are hurt! What—”

“Explanations can wait,” Spike grunted, and he pushed past Caron. Once in their bedroom, he deposited Xander on the mattress as carefully as possible and stared at him, trying to decide how to proceed. “Bloody hell,” he swore to himself. He wasn’t any good at mending humans.

“Spike?” Caron whispered behind him.

Spike rubbed his head with the heels of both hands, as if that would clarify his thoughts. “Just give me a mo’,” he said irritably.

“What’s . . . what’s wrong with Xander? I don’t hear him and usually he talks a lot.”

“He’s unconscious. Demon skewered his arm, and I don’t know . . . Fuck. I’m going to need to find a hospital.”

Caron held out a hand in the direction of the bed. “May I touch him? Please?”

Spike didn’t see the point, but it probably wouldn’t make their bad situation any worse and he certainly didn’t fancy arguing with a distraught angel. “Suit yourself. But unless you’ve grown a medical degree as well . . .”As soon as Spike had given permission, Caron had walked to the edge of the mattress and had very gingerly reached out towards Xander. Caron made a terrible moaning sound when his fingers brushed the wounds in Xander’s arm. “Someone did this to you intentionally?”

“Demons, mate, and yeah, I reckon it was pretty intentional. Look. He’s bleeding and in shock, I need to find someone—”

As Spike spoke, Caron did a strange thing: he began to stroke Xander’s arm, crooning a song under his breath. Spike recognized the tune and winced. “Frankie Goes to Hollywood?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“Shh. It helps me concentrate.” And concentrating was what Caron seemed to be doing, his fingers rubbing, his throat humming, his brows drawn tightly together.

Spike was ready to call an end to the bloody charade—avoiding an angel’s hurt feelings was one thing, but his Xander needed proper care. But then he noted with surprise that the bleeding had  stopped and the skin around the wounds, which had gone an alarming pale grayish color, was pinking up nicely. More amazing, the torn flesh on Xander’s arm was knitting closed. “What are you doing?” Spike whispered with awe.

“I’m . . . I thought it might help but I wasn’t sure. I’m sending him some love back.”

“Oh,” Spike said, and suddenly his legs felt weak and he had to sit on the mattress. Xander’s breathing, which had been rough and shallow, had deepened and evened out, and his heartbeat was strong and steady.

“I can try you next,” Caron said, still concentrating on Xander.

“No, ’t’s all right. I’ve plenty of blood in the fridge and I’ll mend straight away when I drink some. Just . . . help Xander.”

“Okay.” Caron resumed humming.

“You know, that’s not at all a proper song for the occasion,” Spike pointed out. He felt a bit lightheaded.

“Why not? The man on the radio said it’s called ‘The Power of Love.’”

“Yeah, but the lyrics, mate. ‘I’ll protect you from the hooded claw.’ Well, that bit’s all right. But the next? ‘Keep the vampires from your door.’”

“Not you, Spike. But you’d keep other vampires from him, wouldn’t you? Ones who’d want to hurt him?”

“Of course.”

Caron smiled slightly. “Me too. And the other words, they’re good, I think.”

Spike considered the next lines: _Dreams are like angels, they keep the bad at bay . . . . Love is the light, scaring darkness away_. Yeah, all right. Maybe the song did fit.

Just then Xander sighed long and loud, like someone in the middle of a dream, and Caron slowly pulled back his hand. “I think he’ll be all right now,” he said.

“Yeah. I reckon he will. Thank you.”

Caron could be in a toothpaste commercial—his teeth were white and even and he had a dimple in one cheek when he smiled. “I’m your friend. Friends help one another, don’t they?”

“When they’re good friends, yeah.”

Xander shifted a bit on the bed. Spike reckoned he might be starting to come to, so he hurried to the kitchen, slugged down two packets of blood still cold from the fridge, and filled a glass with orange juice. Xander was just blinking his eye open when Spike returned.

“Spike!” Xander cried, and sat up very quickly. “You’re hurt!” He tried to get off the bed, but Caron stopped him with a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Spike said, approaching the bed. He gestured at his filthy, ruined shirt. “This blood is mostly yours.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but Xander didn’t need to know that.

Xander frowned and looked at his arm. His sleeve was in ruins but his flesh looked healthy. “What . . .” He flexed his bicep, very cautiously at first and then more vigorously. “I don’t understand.”

Spike waved in Caron’s direction. “Our friend has more skills than we’d realized.”

“You did this?” Xander asked Caron.

“Yes. It’s . . . it’s all right, isn’t it? You were injured and I knew your love helped me, so . . .  so I tried it back. Is it all right?”

Caron looked truly worried, as if he thought his assistance would be rejected. But Xander smiled and patted him on the hand. “Of course it’s all right. More than. Jesus, Caron, I think I was pretty torn up and now . . . now there’s not even a twinge. You’re amazing.”

The angel beamed. “I’ve never helped anyone before. It feels good.”

“Does your magic work on the undead, too? I know Spike’s stiff-upper-lipping it, but he got chewed up too.”

“He wouldn’t let me help him,” Caron answered sadly. “He said he’d heal on his own.”

Xander scowled at Spike. “And he probably will, but he doesn’t have to be a martyr about it. Spike, why not give it a shot?”

Spike shifted on his feet. “His healing worked a treat on you, but you’re human. You’re good. I’m a demon, Xan.”

“You’re good too. And don’t give me that look—you don’t have to cancel your subscription to Big Bad Magazine. But you’re still better than most humans. Stubborn and snarky and hotheaded, but you’re a good man, Spike.”

For a moment, Spike had to pretend there was something interesting in the corner of the ceiling. Then he cleared his throat. “Still a demon. Xan; his blood burned me. No telling what his healing would do.”

“I’m sorry about my blood,” Caron said in a tiny voice. “I didn’t know.”

“Oi! You needn’t apologize for harming the monster who was trying to murder you.”

“But it would have been okay. You said to me then . . . I remember . . . you said if you fed from me that night I’d save someone else. I thought that was good. I wouldn’t have minded dying. At least . . . you were holding me, Spike, and I wasn’t alone.”

Before all three of them broke into a ridiculous sobfest, Spike strode forward and shoved the glass of juice into Xander’s hand. “Here. Drink up. I expect you’ve some fluids to replenish.”

Xander looked down at himself. “But I seem to have more than my share of demon fluids all over me to make up for it. Yuck. How about a shower?”

Spike waited while Xander finished the juice, then he and Caron stood by in case Xander was shaky when he got to his feet. But Xander stood tall and straight and without a hint of wobble. He set the empty glass on his bedside table and hugged Caron with his restored arm. “I don’t think Hallmark makes greeting cards for quite this occasion, so you’ll just have to settle for a verbal thank you.”

“Greeting cards?” Caron asked in confusion.

Xander laughed. “Don’t worry about it. Need anything before I hit the showers?”

“No thank you. I was listening to the television. I don’t really understand what’s going on, though. Why do voices keep telling me to buy things?”

“That, my friend, is a commercial. They are evil. Ignore them.”

“Okay,” Caron replied contentedly, and ambled out of the room.

Spike decided they might as well bathe together. Conservation of water and all. So he followed Xander into the bathroom—Xander who wasn’t limping or showing signs of injury at all—and when the door was closed behind him, he helped Xander strip out of his clothing. 

“Well, that’s an outfit I’ll never wear again,” Xander said, looking down at the stained and shredded rags. “Oh shit!”

“What?” Spike asked with concern. He was busily checking Xander’s body for undiscovered wounds.

“The clothes! The stuff we bought tonight.”

“Oh.” Spike shrugged. “We can buy some more. Council owes us.”

“Yeah, but that shirt we got for you . . .”

“There are more blue shirts in Venice, love.”

Xander nodded. “Yeah, okay. C’mon demon lover. Strip.”

Spike tried to leer suggestively but the truth was, he was sore and tired and he really just wanted to get into bed and gather Xander into his arms and be grateful they had both survived another day. He pulled off his shirt and Xander gasped.

“Christ, Spike! You said you were fine!”

Spike looked down at the various holes that marred his torso, then wished he hadn’t. It always hurt worse when you actually looked at the injuries. “’T’s nothing. They’re mending already.”

“Stupid vampire,” Xander muttered, kissing a bit of unmarred skin on Spike’s shoulder. Then he unbuttoned Spike’s jeans and slid them down to his ankles. A bit of awkwardness followed, in which Xander tried to get Spike’s Docs and trousers off and Spike tried not to fall on his arse, but then Spike was as bare as Xander. “Isn’t the water gonna hurt?” Xander asked, gesturing at Spike’s wounds.

“It’ll be worth it to get the demon goo off.”

Xander looked doubtful, but he turned the tap on anyway. Once they were in the shower stall, Xander positioned himself so that the brunt of the spray hit him instead of Spike, and although Spike didn’t say so, he was grateful. The water did hurt in fact, but it also felt lovely to be rid of the filth; and it was even nicer when Xander produced a flannel from somewhere and used it to carefully scrub Spike’s skin. When he got to Spike’s groin, it felt nice enough that Spike’s cock twitched a bit.

Xander tsked at him. “There will be none of that tonight, mister.”

“Not even a bit of frotting or a bit of a suck?” Spike asked. His request was just for show, though; he truly was knackered, and besides, Xander must need some rest as well.

“Not even,” Xander replied, punctuating the sentence with a wet kiss on Spike’s cheek. “Not until you’re un-holey again.”

“’M always unholy,” Spike pointed out. But then Xander was working shampoo into Spike’s hair, and that felt so nice that Spike could only manage a slight moan. Xander had strong fingers; Spike wondered if he could cajole a massage out of his boy sometime soon.

After Spike’s hair was rinsed, he leaned back against the shower wall while Xander finished his own clean-up. “Pet?” Spike ventured after a moment.

“Hmm?” Xander had his back to Spike, and the heavy muscles in his shoulders were rippling nicely. Spike remembered when that back had been tanned by the California sun, but now it was pale—albeit not as pale as Spike’s—after too long living in England and keeping demon hours.

“You could have died tonight.”

“Story of my life, Spike. And if you tell me I should stay inside where I’m safe and attack-free, that sex you’re wanting is gonna wait a whole lot longer. Well, a few hours anyway.”

“I know better than that. I was just thinking . . .”

“Don’t strain yourself.”

Spike slapped Xander’s arse, which made Xander look over his shoulder at Spike and grin.

“Git,” Spike said. “Your angel saved you this time, but there will come a time when nobody can save you. When the beastie that gets you is too big or too strong, when we’re too far from help . . .”

Xander turned around completely to look at him. Xander had to swipe his dripping hair away from his eye. “Yeah?”

Spike took a deep breath. “If I can . . . do you want me to turn you?”

Xander’s eye filled with sorrow and he shook his head. “No. Please don’t.”

Spike looked down at his feet. “Right. You wouldn’t want to become a filthy demon.”

“Spike,” Xander said, turning off the water and closing the small distance between them. He traced a finger along the droplets that had collected along Spike’s collarbone. “ _You_ are a squeaky-clean demon. And c’mon. You gotta know by now I’ve lost my prejudices against demons per se. And immortality, superpowers, quick healing . . . all those things sound pretty good to me.”

“So why not?” Spike looked up again, wishing he could understand this man more fully.

“I wouldn’t trust myself.”

“You know your witch would have a soul glued onto you in nothing flat.”

“Yeah, probably. But since when is a soul a guarantee of good behavior? I told you, there was a thing with a hyena once. I know what it’s like when you add a demon to the Harris mix, and it’s not pretty, soul or not. It’s just . . . you were a nice guy when you were human, Spike. Kind of a weenie, maybe, but a nice guy. Family who loved you and you loved them back. Hell, even without the soul, even newly fledged, you didn’t destroy your mother the way Angelus destroyed his people. And later, when you were in Sunnydale, you did genuinely good things you didn’t have to do.”

“Yeah, I was a regular Mother Teresa.”

Xander smiled slightly. “Not quite. But still, you helped us that time when Angelus was psycho, and you were nice to Joyce, and to Dawn.”

Spike shrugged. “So? You’ve been a bloody white hat since you were a boy.”

“I haven’t always been so white-hatted. You know that yourself. But . . . I had a discussion about this once with Giles, a couple years ago. He doesn’t agree with me, but I think I have it figured out. See, you add a demon to a human personality, and most guys get drunk with the power of it. If the human was good to begin with—and if he’s stubborn as a mule—then the demon only corrupts so far. But if the human was nuts, you get a nuts vampire, like Drusilla. If he was an irresponsible jerk who didn’t give a shit about anything but his own pleasure, you get—”

“Angelus.”

“Bingo. Who, I am led to believe, made some morally questionable choices even with the soul. And if the human is kind of weak and maybe has a dark place inside himself that he squishes pretty heavily, well, a demon in the head’s gonna be a pretty bad idea, even with a soul there to put on the brakes.”

Spike considered this for a few moments and then, realizing that Xander was shivering, reached for their towels, draped one of them over Xander’s shoulders, and quickly wiped himself down with the other. Xander watched him anxiously, as if he weren’t sure that Spike would understand. But Spike _did_ understand. He wasn’t sure if Xander was correct, but what his boy had said made sense.

“A dark place?” Spike finally asked.

“Yeah. I can feel it. It’s like . . . once I was on a construction project, and I was working up on the roof, which wasn’t finished yet. And there was this big hole near the middle. You fell in that, you were gonna fall five floors down and splat yourself into a puddle—unless you speared yourself on a rebar or something instead. And I was careful, of course. I stayed away from that hole. But it was always there, and I always knew it. The dark place is like that, only way more tempting than that hole. A demon, though, a demon would drag me right on in.”

Spike nodded. “Those wankers of parents really did a number on you.”

“They did. But so did 22 years on the Hellmouth, and having people I loved die.”

Spike reached up to cup Xander’s jawline. “All right. No turning. But Christ . . . already, I don’t know how I’ll go on without you.”

“You will. Or hey, cheer up! Maybe we’ll get squashed by bad guys simultaneously.”

“You’re daft,” Spike said fondly.

“I’m wiped, is what I am. And you need more blood and straight to bed.”

Spike sighed. “With no shagging.”

“Not tonight, honey. But let’s check and see if that bottle of lube I had in my pants survived the fight intact, ’cause maybe by tomorrow Doctor Xander will give you the all clear.”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “Thought you wanted to play naughty schoolboy?”

“Naughty schoolboy, doctor, rogue cop . . . all good to me.” Xander let the towel drop to the floor and left the bathroom, no doubt aiming for the kitchen and the fridge full of blood.

But Spike remained rooted in place a few minutes longer. “Rogue cop?” he said to himself.

[Chapter Nineteen](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/290929.html)   


 

 

  



	20. Chapter 20

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 19 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001haddf/)  
---  
  
  
  


**Chapter Nineteen**

Caron’s magic touch had healed not only Xander’s arm, but also the other smaller injuries caused by the Ulorar. Even his head felt bruise-free, and no new scars were added to his collection. He really could have used an angel when he was younger. Instead, all he had was Angel, who was usually a prick and never healed anything. But healing was exhausting, so Xander meant it when he told Spike no sex that night. Anyway, he was fairly sure that although Spike would never admit it, the wounded vampire wasn’t exactly up for any more athletics that night. The awful holes in Spike’s body looked a little smaller and less ugly, but they were still holes in places where no holes ought to be.

They got into bed together, and Xander fully intended on going to sleep. But Spike looked kind of frail, lying on his back like that, and Xander couldn’t help but plant tiny little kisses in the vicinity of every scratch, gouge, and bruise on Spike’s body. It wasn’t really erotic—and it wasn’t supposed to be—it was just nice. A way of telling Spike without words that Xander cared.

And Spike must have understood, because he smiled softly and ran his fingers through Xander’s damp hair.

When every owie was kissed better, the two of them spooned, Spike’s smaller and cooler body behind Xander. Finally, Spike raised up a bit, kissed Xander’s cheek twice, and then slipped into sleep; Xander fell asleep not long afterward.

When Xander woke up, the bedside clock said 8:47. He swore under his breath. You had to put your trash out between 7 and 9 a.m. in Venice--marauding seagulls or something—and he and Spike had accumulated quite a few empty blood bags and greasy pizza boxes. The blankets had shifted down, revealing Spike’s upper body, and Xander was relieved to see that the wounds were reduced to nothing but pinkish scars—which would probably disappear within hours. Moving carefully and quietly so as not to disturb his sleeping lover, Xander pulled on a pair of blue sweatpants. Then he peeked in on Caron, who also looked to be snoozing away peacefully. Rubbing absently at his missing eye, Xander went into the kitchen and gathered the garbage bags. He made a quick stop in the bathroom for the remains of their clothing, which he shoved into a plastic grocery sack after fishing his wallet and various other items from their pants pockets. And then he grabbed the keys and left the apartment.

It only took a moment to set the garbage outside the building’s main door. There was already quite a bit of activity in the sun-drenched campo. A pair of little old ladies were waddling by with bags full of bread and vegetables, a guy with a cart full of fish on ice was heading towards one of the side streets, and two toddlers were chattering with their grandfather. At the restaurant across the square, a guy was setting up tables while he listened to something on the radio. A small clump of tourists huddled around a guy with a map; each of the tourists was gesturing in a different direction. Xander chuckled and ducked back into the building’s courtyard.

But before he entered the apartment itself, he caught sight of something he’d missed on the way out: two green plastic shopping bags leaning next to his door. They looked exactly like the bags he’d lost during the fight the night before. Xander looked around, but there was nobody else there. Just a pigeon perched on a second-floor window ledge, peering down at him with its orange eyes.

Xander knelt and cautiously peeked into the bags. Shirts, underwear, pants, socks, tennis shoes. Yep, those were their purchases all right. With a shrug and a last glance around, Xander gathered the bags up and went inside.

***

“I don’t understand why you wear these things. Are you ashamed of your bodies?” Caron squirmed uncomfortably in his new clothing. “That can’t be right—I heard you two call one another beautiful.”

While Spike smirked, Xander sighed and tried to explain. “Spike is beautiful, and so are you. But that’s not the point. It’s . . . I don’t know. Modesty. The law. Social norms. You just gotta do it.”

“Even when I’m inside?”

Xander patted his shoulder. “In the apartment you can wear your birthday suit. But out in the world you’re gonna have to stay dressed.”

“Birthday suit?” Caron asked, puzzled.

“The boy means you can be naked indoors,” Spike explained. “Sometimes he needs a bloody translator.”

Xander scowled and rubbed his eye. “Look who’s talking.”

Caron ignored the interchange, instead shifting his feet. “But the shoes. Is it forbidden to show feet as well?”

“Feet are okay,” Xander said. “But you need shoes if you’re gonna go in stores and things, plus the streets are really dirty, and sometimes there’s broken glass and stuff.”

“All right,” Caron said like a sulky child. “If I must.”

Xander grinned. “C’mon. The adventure will be worth the torture of footwear.”

Caron followed them out of the apartment and into the campo, where dusk had fallen and the restaurant tables were filled. But they had only taken a few steps when the angel stopped. “Please?” he said in a near whisper.

Spike and Xander paused as well. “What is it?” asked Spike.

“You won’t . . . you won’t let me get lost, will you?”

“Couldn’t lose an enormous bloke like you if we tried,” Spike answered.

But Caron still wavered uncertainly, so Xander lifted one of the angel’s huge paws and settled it on his own shoulder. “I’m willing to play guide dog. Half-blind leading the blind. You just hang on, okay?”

“Thank you, Xander.”

They walked slowly through the city. People stared a little, but Xander figured they were probably quite a sight: handsome goth guy with day-glo hair, sort of scruffy guy with an eye-patch, and a guy who looked like the cover of a Harlequin Romance novel, only without any eyes at all. A very strange little parade. Caron gripped Xander’s shoulder hard enough to bruise, but Xander didn’t complain. Sometimes Xander glanced back to see Caron tilting his head from side to side or inhaling deeply.

In one particularly narrow street, Caron came to a complete halt, nearly toppling Xander backwards. “What is _that_?” Caron asked. His nose was pointed high.

“What’s what?”

“That smell. It’s . . . it’s _wonderful_!”

Xander looked around to see what could send an angel into rapture. “Ah. Those are dessert crepes with Nutella.” They smelled pretty good to him, too, actually.

“Are they food?”

“More or less. Do you want one?”

“I haven’t  . . . I’ve never eaten food.”

Spike had gone on for several yards without noticing they had stopped; by now he had backtracked to them. They were mostly blocking the street, earning dirty looks and muttered comments from passersby. “Tell you what,” Spike said. “The place is open late. Let’s walk about a bit, and we’ll stop by on our way back. That’ll give you time to enjoy your first food without gawping crowds.”

“All right,” Caron said happily, and they continued onward.

Their progress remained slow. Xander had never owned a dog, but he imagined taking one for a walk would be something like this, with the dog stopping every few feet to smell something new and exciting. But they weren’t in a hurry, and Caron was so obviously delighted with their little excursion that Xander was grinning like a loon, and even Spike was smiling from ear to ear.

They stopped when they got to the internet café. Xander helped Caron sit on one of the long benches while Spike ordered for them at the bar. Shortly after Spike rejoined them, the lady who worked there came by with two bottles of Birra Ichnusa, a can of Coke, and three glasses. She barely glanced at Spike and Xander as she poured—her focus was so much on the oblivious Caron that Xander nearly ended up with a lapful of suds. She seemed reluctant to leave their table, too, chatting with Spike in Chinese but still staring at Caron. And then, to Xander’s surprise, Caron said something back to her in her own language. She giggled and hurried away.

“What was that all about?” Xander was slightly put out at being the only person there who hadn’t understood.

“She wanted to know if Caron would fancy a tour of the city. A private tour.”

“How obliging of her.”

“Yeah. So our boy told her that he didn’t need one, because we would show him about. He also informed her that we are heroes who saved him and that he’s happy because we’re in love.”

Xander blushed belatedly. “Um, pal? Let me introduce you to the concept of TMI.”

“TMI?” Caron asked.

“Yeah. It means . . . you don’t have to tell every detail of your life to everyone you meet.”

“You don’t want people to know you and Spike are in love?”

Spike looked like he wanted to hear the answer, too, so Xander grabbed his vampire’s hand from across the table and kissed it. Loudly. Which produced another laugh from behind the bar. “I don’t care who knows. And actually, we’re kind of advertising our couplehood around here, at least among the demony types. I’m supposed to be his pet. But you have to be careful what you say and to who—”

“Whom,” Spike corrected with a smug look.

“Thanks, master. And you don’t have to spill your guts to strangers,” Xander continued. “Which reminds me. Um, we’re all probably best off if you don’t tell everyone that Spike’s a vamp and you’re an angel.”

“Why not?”

“Some people don’t believe in angels and demons, and they’ll think you’re crazy. And some do believe, but they don’t know that Spike’s a good vamp. And others might have evil plans, like the witch who made you real again.”

Caron nodded seriously. “All right. Can I tell people you’re human, Xander?”

Xander laughed. “Sure. Although I think they’ll pretty much assume that.” When Caron smiled, Xander moved the soft drink so it was against the angel’s hand. “Try this,” he said.

Caron did. As soon as he took a sip his eyebrows rose and he gasped a little. “What’s . . . Bubbles?”

“Carbonation, my friend.”

Caron took another cautious sip, and then another, and then he chugged about half the glass at once. “That’s amazing! So good!” He looked the way Xander had felt the first time he jerked off enough to orgasm—like someone who had discovered the secret to life itself.

Spike rolled his eyes. “Brilliant. Looks as if junior’s inherited your sweet tooth, love.”

The three of them chatted a while, Caron asking questions about music and Spike and Xander giving him strong and contrasting opinions. The non-celestial beings each had another beer and Caron downed three cans of Coke and was halfway through his fourth. Xander wondered where all the liquid went—the angel never pissed. But then neither did Spike. Magical bladders, Xander concluded enviously.

“I think we ought to change tactics,” Spike announced, interrupting Xander’s brief reverie.

“Um . . . okay.”

“Our little chat with da Ponte gained us nothing but last night’s festivities, and we still don’t know if the little fuck sent the Ulorar or if he and they are acting on someone else’s behalf. Or why.”

“Yeah, and I’d like to avoid a repeat of last night, thanks.” Xander swished a little beer around in his mouth, as if to wash away the taste of the fight.

“Me as well. But I was thinking. Signora Bennu told us there has been at least one other survivor of the attacks—the Vlamnech, yeah? Perhaps he could shed some light on what’s going on.”

That made sense to Xander, so they finished their drinks, waved at the lady, and left. Spike led them again, and soon they arrived at L’Uccello Nero. Both the restaurant’s courtyard and interior were crowded, but Signora Bennu spotted them at once and came gliding over. She craned her neck to get a good look at Caron, who towered over her, and then her orange eyes went very wide. She exclaimed something in a language Xander didn’t recognize.

“Signora,” Spike began.

“What is _this_ you have brought?”

Spike looked as if he were having second thoughts about bringing Caron. “Erm . . . this is Caron, and he—”

She held a hand up to stop him. “Not here. Please, follow me.”

They did, strolling past diners of various species until they walked through a wooden door. Then they traipsed through the kitchen—which smelled wonderful even to Xander and practically gave Caron an olfactory conniption—and through a doorway so low that Caron conked his head when he tried to enter.

“Oops,” Xander said. “Sorry. Low bridge.”

They were in an office. It was small and neat, full of delicate furniture and fancy decorations: the kind of place where Xander was afraid to move lest he break something. The signora gestured Spike into the chair in front of her desk and, a moment later, a man came inside with chairs for Xander and Caron. Xander helped Caron to his and they all sat down, the signora arranged elegantly behind her desk. Spike started to speak but she held up her tiny hand again, as another man entered the room bearing a tray. He set a china teapot and four china cups onto the desk and hurried away. The cups had gold rims and were painted with tiny flowers and buzzing bees.

Signora Bennu poured the tea and fragrant steam filled the little room, making Caron hum appreciatively. She handed a cup to Spike, then looked at Xander and Caron consideringly before using a pair of tongs to drop a single sugar cube into one cup and four into the other. She stirred— _clink clink clink_ —and handed them the cups; Xander got the tea with one lump. The delicate china looked ridiculous in Caron’s huge mitts, but Caron handled it carefully and smiled widely after his first sip.

“So?” the signora asked, addressing the question to Spike.

“His name is Caron and he’s an angel,” Spike replied simply.

“Yes. And where did you happen to find such a creature?”

“Can I tell her?” Caron whispered to Xander.

That caught her attention. “Tell me what?”

Caron waited until Xander patted his shoulder. “Sure, big guy. Go ahead.”

“Spike found me a long time ago. And then he came back with Xander and they rescued me and they’ve helped me heal.”

“How?”

“Love,” Caron answered simply.

The signora thought about this a few moments, her birdlike head cocked to the side, and then she nodded. “Very well. Were you in Venezia all these years?”

“Yes.”

“Then I am sorry. I was not aware you were here, or I would have made certain you were rescued much sooner.”

“It’s all right. Nobody knew. I was . . . broken.” He sipped at his tea and smiled. “And now I am not.”

She nodded again and turned to Spike. “And does the angel’s presence have anything to do with the other matters we discussed?”

“No, I don’t expect it does. But those are the matters we came about tonight. We haven’t made much headway, and last night we were attacked.”

She looked concerned. “Are you injured?”

“Not anymore. We killed them—my boy’s a good hand at fighting, you know, not just a pretty face—but I doubt that’ll be the last of them. I’d like a chat with the other bloke they attacked. The Vlamnech.”

“Signor Ricciutelli. I do not know if he is well enough yet for visitors. And he does not speak English.”

“I’d fancy giving it a try anyway.”

After more careful thought, the signora opened a desk drawer and removed a sheet of thick, creamy paper. Xander watched in fascination as she dipped a quill pen in a small pot of ink and used it to write something on the paper. She waited a minute for the ink to dry, then folded the paper and handed it to Spike. “Here you are. Il signor’s address.”

Spike bobbed his head in thanks.

They finished their tea after that, and Signora Bennu gave Caron a cloth sachet full of cubes of brown sugar, and he bent down and kissed her cheek. “And what is it you want, angel?” she asked before they left her office.

“I am very happy now. Happier than I ever imagined.”

“But there is more you yearn for?”

“I want . . . I want Xander and Spike to be safe and happy. And I want . . .” He ducked his head. “I wish that I could find my partner, just like they’ve found theirs.”

Her hand was tiny on his broad cheek. “Perhaps you will, Caron. I will give you a gift for luck, just as I gave Spike.” She plucked a black feather from the capelet that might not have been a capelet at all, and folded Caron’s fingers around it. “Good fortune, angel.”

[Chapter Twenty](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/291236.html)   


 

 

  



	21. Chapter 21

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 20 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander **  
Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected. **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished. [Previous chapters here](../../../tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h6bgp/)  
---  
  
**Chapter Twenty**

Spike glanced back at Xander, who was leading Caron through the streets. Both looked pensive and Xander was rubbing under his eyepatch. “Perhaps we should go back to the flat,” Spike suggested. “You had a rough night yesterday, pet, and it’s Caron’s first outing.”

“I feel fine. Better than. But Caron, want us to drop you off? I can hook you up with a new book.”

“No. Please, let me go too. Maybe I can help.”

Xander and Spike looked at one another, then back at Caron, who was frowning anxiously. Spike sighed. “He’s a big boy, I expect,” he said.

“Yeah. Guess so.”

The angel smiled. “Thank you! I would worry if you went without me.”

Spike wasn’t certain how he felt about having an angel worrying about him. It was a little odd. He wasn’t used to having anyone care, and now here he was, collecting a small entourage. He reminded himself not to grow too accustomed to it.

Maybe Xander noticed the fleeting melancholy that passed through Spike’s soul, because he came a step closer—still trailing Caron—and flung an arm around Spike’s shoulders. “I think we should make a crepe stop first,” he announced. “’Cause I’m a carpe crepe kind of guy.”

The crepe shop wasn’t really on the way, but Caron looked so eager about it, and Xander was right about seizing opportunities when they came. So they took a detour that ended with all three of them clutching waxed paper bags of warm pastry. They ducked into the nearby campo and leaned up against a wall to eat. Spike’s had a marmalade filling that he quite fancied, while Xander and Caron had both opted for Nutella. The angel took a big bite, leaving his lips smeared with chocolate.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, which for some reason made Xander give Spike the evil eye. “This is . . . this is _heaven_! How can people not eat this all the time?”

“If people ate this all the time, people wouldn’t be able to fit through doorways,” Xander answered, licking his lips in a way that made Spike wish the night were done and they were back in their flat. Naked. He was forcefully reminded that they had foregone sex when they woke up because, Xander said, Spike still wasn’t one hundred percent and it would be more satisfying if they waited a few hours. 

“Bollocks,” Spike muttered under his breath.

“Is all food this wonderful?” Caron asked.

Xander laughed. “Sadly, no. For every delicious dessert there’s a lima bean lying in wait, or a plate of liver and onions.”

“And people eat those too?”

“Yep. Often under protest.”

“But . . . why? Why eat things they don’t like when there are crepes?” Caron swallowed the last of his and, when Xander took his paper away, licked his fingers.

“Because crepes aren’t very healthy and lima beans are. Sometimes the world sucks. And sometimes people have to do things they don’t want to because those are the right things to do.”

Caron nodded sadly and Spike stole a chocolate-hazelnut-flavored kiss from his boy.

Signor Ricciutelli lived on the third floor of a narrow building that might once have been grand, but now seemed to be leaning precariously to one side and covered in leprously peeling plaster. The door to the building had been propped open slightly with a chunk of wood; Spike thought that was poor security for a bloke who had recently been attacked. But the three of them trooped up worn stairs and Spike knocked on a door with scabrous brown paint. A moment later he heard light footsteps.

“Chi è?” came a male voice from inside.

“We’re here to see Signor Ricciutelli,” said Spike.

“Chi?”

Spike made a frustrated sound, but then Caron said something in Italian. Spike caught Ricciutelli’s name. The bloke inside responded—not very happily, Spike thought—and Caron frowned. “He wants to know who we are and what we want with il signor.”

“Might as well tell him the truth. It’s William the Bloody and his pet human and . . . sidekick . . . and we’re here to stop whoever’s responsible for attacking him.”

Caron conveyed the message. After a long pause, the door creaked slowly open. A man stood there, glaring at them suspiciously. Or not a man really, but a demon. A young male who looked vaguely human, but with papery gray skin and yellow lidless eyes. He looked ready to slam the door in their faces any moment, so Spike was relieved when Xander stuck his foot in the doorway.

“Really,” Xander said with his goofiest, most regular-bloke grin, “we’re good guys. Please let us in.”

Caron translated; the demon’s eyes remained narrowed, but he did motion them inside. Xander strode right into the flat, Caron still attached to his shoulder, but Spike was stopped at the threshold. “Need a bloody invite,” he said through gritted teeth.

The demon’s eyes widened with alarm when he realized what was at his door. But Caron spoke rapidly to him in Italian and Xander kept smiling winningly, and Spike tried to look as inoffensive as possible, which wasn’t sodding easy. Finally, the demon mumbled something to him and Spike was able to enter the flat. The place was crowded with ancient furniture and precarious stacks of books and old maps and piles of crumbling paper. It smelled of dust and rot. As they moved across the floor, Xander managed to knock over a waist-high heap of leather-bound volumes, and Caron toppled a little table heaped with scrolls and shifted a miniature mountain of what appeared to be antique newspapers. The little demon glared at them.

The flat was much larger than Spike would have suspected—much larger than the laws of geometry permitted, actually—and it took them several minutes to wind their way through the maze of crap. But eventually they came to a short, curved door and the demon held his hand up to stop them. He rapped on the door and ducked inside. Spike could just barely make out a quiet conversation, but couldn’t understand the words. 

Xander rubbed nervously at his missing eye.

“Stop the fidgeting!” Spike hissed.

“It itches!”

Then the door swung open again and they were waved impatiently inside.

Signor Ricciutelli was the size of a small child and as dry and wizened-looking as a raisin. His skin was the color of old ivory and his sharp, unblinking eyes were topaz with vertically slitted pupils. He was propped on a mound of pillows and swathed in a red velvet duvet. “Che volete?” he asked. His voice was like the scratching of a fountain pen on paper.

“We want to ask you some questions about the blokes that attacked you,” said Spike, then waited for Caron to translate.

“Perché?” The signor’s intense gaze made Spike uncomfortable.

“Because they attacked us as well. Because we want to know what they’re up to and who’s behind them, and we want to stop them.”

Signor Ricciutelli considered each of them in turn. When it was his turn, Spike felt as if his skin were being peeled back, as if the other demon were peeking in at his soul. It was a nasty sensation. But whatever the demon saw must have satisfied him, because after several minutes of scrutiny he nodded.

The conversation that followed was a slow one. Caron had to translate and the signor kept interrupting to ask questions, and Xander spent the entire time shifting from foot to foot and messing with his bloody eyepatch, until Spike wished he had a firm rope to tie his boy down. But in the end they were able to gain some useful information: the Ulorar that attacked Ricciutelli had been attempting to take him somewhere and he’d resisted.

“Wait,” Spike said after an especially long explanation. “Repeat that last bit.”

Caron nodded. “The Ulorar said ‘Our master wants to see you.’”

“So they’re not acting on their own. No surprise—they’re not terribly bright. Has he any idea who their master is?”

More rapid chatter, accompanied by shakes of the demon’s head. “No,” said Caron. “Il signor says it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t appear at anybody’s command. If people want to speak to him they come to him and ask politely.”

“Ask him what he reckons il ministro’s role is.”

Caron did, and then conveyed the response. “During the attack itself, he never suspected il ministro. But when there was no response to his complaints he knew something was wrong. He doesn’t know whether il ministro himself is the Ulorars’ master, and he’s warded his flat to repel enemies.”

“And does he know why anyone would want him so badly?”

When Caron communicated the question, the signor shrugged his tiny shoulders and responded. “He says he’s a scholar,” Caron said. “An expert in demon physiology and medicine. He assumes the attack has something to do with that, but he has no idea what information this master wanted, and why he couldn’t request it in a civilized manner. Maybe the master couldn’t afford to pay il signor’s fees, which are high.”

A few more questions revealed that the demon had told them everything that might be helpful. Spike thanked the old creature with a little bow, which Xander copied clumsily. Then the younger demon led them out.

“Well, what do you think?” Xander asked once they were on the street again. 

“Da Ponte’s behind this. Don’t know what he’s after, though. Doesn’t appear that it’s the usual money and power.”

“Any idea what we do next?”

Spike smiled. “We go home and I shag you senseless.”

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” Xander said with a wide grin. “Caron, do you feel like you’ve done enough for your first outing?”

“Yes! I drank Coke and met demons and there were all the smells and sounds. And crepes! . . .  And I could help you a little,” he added a bit shyly.

Spike gave the angel’s arm a brief squeeze. “You were a big help. We’d have had a bloody hard time of it without you to interpret. Cheers.”

Caron beamed so brightly that a middle-aged woman who was passing in the other direction walked into a wall.

“How many languages do you speak?” Xander asked him.

“All of them.”

“ _All_ of them?”

Caron stopped and hunched his shoulders. “Is that wrong? I’m sorry. I thought—”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Xander said soothingly. “I was just a little shocked. I almost flunked tenth grade French. My big foreign language accomplishment is successfully ordering at a taco truck.”

“Oh,” Caron said, sighing with relief. 

Spike asked, “When you say ‘all of them,’ do you mean living and dead? Human and demon?”

“I . . . I’m not sure. It’s only, if someone says something, I can understand it. When I was first brought to earth I didn’t realize that people could speak without understanding each other. But then when my . . . when the man who made me a statue was showing me to prospective buyers, some of them had to bring translators. I would listen to these men and women saying how beautiful I was, how skilled the sculptor had been, how even the feathers of my wings looked like the real things. And then I’d listen again as the translators said the words in a new language.”

Xander pulled Caron into a hug, and Caron embraced him back, sagging a little against Xander’s smaller body. “Nobody’s ever gonna treat you like an object again,” Xander promised. “You’re your own man now—your own angel—and you belong only to yourself.”

“But can I belong to you and Spike too?” Caron asked quietly. “Just a little. Not like you belong to each other, not like that, but . . .”

“Family. Humans have families. Do angels?”

Caron shook his head slightly.

“Well, we do. And sometimes they’re people you’re related to by blood, but sometimes you get to choose your family and then you belong to each other. You look out for each other. Lend a hand, lend an ear. Whatever. We can be family, Caron.”

Caron snuffled happily and squeezed Xander hard enough to make him grunt, while Spike looked up at the sky and wondered how many more of these bloody sobfests he was going to have to endure.

***

“That language thing Caron’s got going would come in pretty handy at HQ,” Xander said. He was naked, having just stripped off the last of his clothing, and was leaning against their bedroom wall and watching Spike unbutton his trousers.

“It would,” agreed Spike. “But can we save this conversation for later? I’ve been waiting for you for ages.” He stepped out of his jeans.

Xander strolled over and gave Spike’s body a critical eye. “I dunno. Maybe we should give you another day to—hey!” The last word came out in a squeal as Spike hoisted Xander and flung him over his shoulder. Xander _oomfed_ as he was tossed onto the mattress, then again when Spike scrambled up to straddle him.

“As you can see, I am perfectly healthy, a few lingering marks notwithstanding. And fully capable of functioning.” To underscore his point, Spike stroked his own hardening cock until it was fully erect.

Xander looked at Spike’s cock, licked his lips, and tried to wiggle his hips a little. “Well. If you put it like that . . .”

“No. I put it like _this_.” Spike lowered his torso until he was draped across Xander, their cocks pressed together. He licked delicately over Xander’s carotid. He expected the boy to tense up, at least a bit, despite their earlier discussion about the mutual benefits of biting. But Xander only smiled and tilted his head to the side, giving Spike better access while at the same time grabbing handfuls of Spike’s arse.

“It truly doesn’t bother you?” Spike whispered into the shell of Xander’s ear. Biting was an intimacy Buffy had never permitted him; even Drusilla had allowed it only rarely, when the wind blew from the east and the pixies wore the right colored wings, or some such rot.

In a voice that was husky with lust, yet carried humor as well, Xander answered. “Do I look bothered? Aside from the _hot and_ kind of bothered, which I absolutely am.”

Spike gave him a long, careful look. Xander’s head was still crooked. He had tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and his lips were upturned. His breathing and heartbeat were a bit fast, but Spike reckoned from lust rather than fear, and he smelled delicious, a feast ready for the taking.

“I could make a mistake, you know,” Spike told him gravely. “Drink just a bit too much, because you’ll taste so lovely. Just for a moment forget what I mean to be doing.”

Xander didn’t look alarmed. “I guess you could. But there’s worse ways to go. I know. I’ve seen them. Anyway, I trust you.”

Those last three words went straight to Spike’s heart, twisting it and then smoothing it out again. Warming the marrow of his bones, which had been cold for so long. _I trust you_ , Xander said, words nobody had ever spoken to him before; and Spike was certain that if Xander hadn’t been gripping his arse, Spike would have floated right to the ceiling.

And so Spike did two things. First, he reached to the bedside table and retrieved the waiting bottle of slick. He dangled it in front of Xander’s face, making Xander smile. And then Spike shifted his face, feeling the comfortable way bones thickened and slid into place, the way sharp teeth descended and his vision grew more acute. He had worn his human face for over 150 years now, and yet for 130 of those years, that face had felt a bit like a costume, a slightly too-tight uniform that had to be worn most of the time. He had become used to it, but he gloried in those brief periods when he could cast off the restrictive facade.

Xander didn’t flinch away. Instead, he reached up and slowly traced a broad thumb across Spike’s brow ridges, across the scar that was still there, up each cheekbone, and then over Spike’s lower lip. Spike’s mouth was slightly open, revealing his fangs, and Xander pressed the ball of his thumb against one point just hard enough to pierce the skin. Spike shuddered when the taste of a single droplet of blood reached his tongue.

“I don’t disgust you?”

“You used to scare me. More than once you angered me. Sometimes you still annoy me. But Spike, you have never disgusted me.”

When Spike still hesitated, not quite able to believe that this could all be true, Xander cupped a hand on Spike’s cheek. “Anybody ever tell you you’re the world’s most insecure demon?”

“Xander Harris calling _me_ insecure?”

Xander laughed and then so did Spike, and the tension was broken. A moment later Spike scooted down as Xander spread his legs and bent his knees, fully revealing himself. 

He was a delicious sight, scars and all. Spike moved even farther, until he was nearly off the bed. He bent his head down and nosed at Xander’s fat cock, at his heavy balls. He let Xander’s dark, curly pubic hairs tickle his chin. And then he stuck his tongue out and lapped at the tight little pucker that was temporarily his, all his. With some effort, he managed not to cackle like Gollum with his sodding ring.

Spit made a poor lubricant, but a wet tongue was a good way to open his boy, to relax firm muscles and make them willingly yield. Only when Xander was gasping and arching his back, calling Spike a goddamn tease and worse, did Spike uncap the little plastic bottle and use his slippery fingers to complete the task his tongue had begun.

When they’d first coupled, Xander had taken Spike from behind. That had been brilliant, the feeling of a big, hot body covering his, drops of Xander’s sweat falling onto Spike’s spine, strong arms caging him. But this time Spike wanted to see his lover’s face—wanted his lover to see him. So he was pleased when Xander remained on his back and tilted his hips up invitingly.

Spike had prepared Xander more than adequately, so when he sheathed himself in one long stroke, Xander showed no evidence of pain. Just eagerness and need. And, oh _fuck_! The feeling of all that heat around him, gripping him. Spike felt as if he might melt like candle wax, might simply become a puddle of molten goo. But he’d be very happy goo at that.

He was so lost in the sensation as he slid his cock in and not quite out that he nearly forgot what else he’d meant to do. But Xander blinked up at him—face flushed, pupils blown wide open—and rasped, “Bite me, Spike.”

And Spike did.

It was almost too much. All his senses flooded nearly beyond bearing, every bit of his skin on fire and the sound of a racing heart in his ears. Xander crying out—“Oh God, Spike, God! Like that!”—and coppery sweetness willingly given and salty musk. All too much and yet not enough. Spike moved more rapidly and then . . . and then . . . and then for just one blessed moment he reached perfection and the transcendence of it made him fall apart. Like Icarus and his wings Spike went spiraling down, lost but exultant with the effort of it all.

And Spike landed in Xander’s arms, atop a damp and sticky sheet.

It was a long time before Xander caught his breath—hell, it was a long time before Spike caught his breath—and then they lay there for ages, drifting into blissful sleep.

Drifting, that was, until a startling realization hit Spike with a jolt.

 _Pupils?_

[Chapter Twenty One](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/292146.html) _  
_

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 21 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](../../../tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

**Chapter Twenty One**

Xander was sore and achy in exactly the right ways. All his bones had melted, so he couldn’t reach up to touch the tiny wounds in his neck, but if he stretched his neck just so the pinpricks would sting and tingle a little, reminding him of what he’d just done. Which was have sex so mind-blowing that he fully intended to check the integrity of his skull, once he mustered enough energy to do so. Which should be sometime in the next millennium.

And Xander was thinking these lazy, unthinky thoughts and drifting in a pleasant haze, when Spike shot up in bed as suddenly as if he’d been shocked with a cattle prod. He stared at Xander, wide-eyed. “Bloody hell!”

“What?” Xander demanded, alarmed. He sat up, too, and tried to quell the fear that Spike was no longer under the influence of Caron’s love dust.

Spike grabbed Xander’s chin. “Look at me,” he commanded.

“Um . . . okay.”

“No, pet. _Look_ at me.”

Xander blinked and wondered if Spike was having a relapse to his crazy days. But as Xander blinked, he noticed something . . . odd. The left side of his world, which had suffered a considerable shrinkage ten years earlier, was suddenly back in full force. And the room was startlingly real, kind of like when you slipped on your 3D glasses and the movie monster was hovering over the seat in front of you.

Xander’s hand flew to his face. He prodded and promptly poked himself in the eye. The left eye.

“Ahh!” he cried. He tried to get out of bed and stand all at once, and he got tangled in Spike and the bedding so that he ended up falling flat on his ass on the cold, hard floor. “Ahh!” he yelled again as he once more jabbed his eye. And then, with marginally more coherence, “What the _fuck_?!”

Spike scrambled out of bed to kneel beside him. “’T’s been bothering you all day, hasn’t it?”

“It was kinda sore and itchy all day, yeah. But this isn’t bothering, Spike, this is . . . I don’t know what the hell it is!”

“Has to be Caron.”

Of course it had to be. So Xander allowed Spike to help him to his feet. Walking was slightly disorienting; he’d been compensating for his lost vision for so long that it was dizzying now to have it back. Together they padded to the other bedroom.

But when they got there, Caron wasn’t in bed. Instead, he was pressed back into the corner of the room. His hands were up in what Xander at first thought was a defensive posture. But then he realized Caron was looking at his hands—examining them with two wide, greenish eyes.

“Bloody hell,” said Spike. “It’s an epidemic.”

Caron looked at him. “Spike? Oh, Spike! You’re as beautiful as Xander said. And Xander, you’re so handsome too. You have a kind face.”

“A kind face with two eyes. What did you do to me?”

“What— Oh! Your eye!”

“My eye is right! You’ve been all with the regeneration—we’ve established that. Angels and love and so on. Great. But I’m no angel.”

“But I healed you. Yesterday.”

“Yeah, you healed my arm and that bump on the head and the other Ulorar souvenirs, but—”

“Caron,” Spike interrupted. “The mojo you did last night—it mended more than his recent wounds, yeah?”

Caron nodded.

“But you didn’t fix everything. He still has his scars. He’s still circumcised.”

Everybody stared at Xander’s definitely still cut cock.

“I suppose I can fix those things, too. But I thought—”

“No!” Xander said, cupping a protective hand over his crotch. “Let’s leave everything else as-is, please. No magic foreskin regrowth.”

Caron’s head was bowed. “I’m sorry. I thought—an eye. You said it hurt sometimes. And when you fight, it must be safer with two eyes. I only want you to be safe, Xander. You’re so kind and Spike loves you, and . . . I’m sorry.”

Xander sighed. He walked across the room and in what had become a familiar move, drew an angel in for a comforting embrace. “Definitely not angry. A new eye— Wow! I was just kinda startled, is all.”

Spike had approached, too, and he patted Caron’s back. “I’m glad you did it, mate. You’re right—he’ll be safer. But you should give a bloke some warning. Wasn’t it a shock for you as well?”

“Yes,” Caron said in a tiny voice. “I’m happy too. But . . . it’s been so long since I could see. It’s a little scary.”

Which was how Xander ended up spending the remainder of the night with a vampire _and_ an angel in his bed.

***

Bed hogs.

It wasn’t a huge bed to begin with—queen size, probably. Plenty for two, but pretty tight for three. And when one of the three liked to sleep half on top of Xander as if he were a combination teddy bear and space heater, and when the other one was huge and unused to sleeping in a bed, let alone sharing one—and, it turned out, was subject to nightmares as well—that meant the guy in the middle got squished. It was a nice squish. The squishers had soft skin and one of them smelled like breakfast. 

But eventually Xander’s extremities fell asleep and his bladder threatened to explode, and he had to get up.

“Hey!” he said, poking his bedmates in tandem. “Up.”

“Sod off,” Spike mumbled, while Caron said something in what might have been Latin.

Xander poked them again. “Up! The filling in this sandwich is human and has to piss.”

There were more half-asleep complaints, but that time they at least rolled off him and, with considerable difficulty, Xander managed to escape via the foot of the bed. He stopped to gaze fondly at the two sleeping beauties, each of whom looked more like a sleeping child than a supernatural creature of immense power.

He felt much better once he’d peed and his arms and legs had lost their numbness. But by then he was fully awake, so instead of heading back to bed he put on a pair of jeans he found abandoned in the bathroom, padded into the kitchen, and plugged in the electric kettle. He munched on a slice of olive-studded bread until he found his phone half-hidden under a pizza sauce-stained napkin. And then, while he sipped at his Nescafe, he called London.

“Hello, Xander.” For once, Giles didn’t immediately ask if something was wrong. Yay. Progress.

“Hey, Giles. How’s tricks in Jolly Olde?”

“Somebody stopped up the toilets on the second floor and we had to call in a plumber, but not before damage was done to the ceiling below. Everyone on the north side of the building has been complaining about drafts from the windows. That Slayer from Quito—Pilar, is it?—turned several of the stair railings into stakes, and everyone has been tripping over the loose bit in the entranceway to the dining room.”

Xander laughed. “Sounds like you miss me.”

Giles _humphed_ in a way that widened Xander’s grin. “Have you any progress to report?” Giles asked.

“Sort of. We’re pretty sure that da Ponte’s our guy, and we know he’s after something but we don’t know what yet.” Xander decided to skip mentioning the Ulorar attack on him and Spike.

“Very well. And the angel?”

“Caron, remember?”

“Caron,” Giles repeated impatiently.

“He’s good. Turns out he can translate for us. He says he can understand any language.”

“Any language? Fascinating.” 

Xander figured Giles was already taking notes, so he added, “And his eyes grew back. He can see now.”

“He’s fully intact now?”

“Except for wings. And it’s gonna be a bitch to find him shirts that fit if those grow back too.”

There was a brief pause. “So I take it you and Spike—”

“Still doing the horizontal bop. You want details, Giles?” Xander added, a little nastily.

But Giles didn’t seem to take offense. “I think we shall skip that in the report.” He sighed. “Are you all right, Xander?”

“More than. You know that healing-with-love bit? Turns out it’s a two-way street. Caron regrew my eye.”

“He— What?” sputtered Giles.

“Eye. I am no longer monocular man.”

“Good lord! But how?”

“Told you. Love makes the world go ‘round and, apparently, regenerates organs.”

“Xander, I—”

“Yeah, I know. You want to study this. Study Caron. But the other thing, Giles, is he’s still sort of . . . innocent. Like a little kid. He’s not stupid or anything. But he hasn’t seen much of the world and what he has seen hasn’t been pretty. Give him some time before you stick him under a microscope, okay?”

“All right, Xander. Just—”

“Do be careful,” Xander finished for him with a chuckle. “I know.”

***

The next several days were pleasant. In the evenings, the three of them patrolled Venice. They didn’t learn anything new about what was going on, nor did they spot any bad guys. But Paolo gave them ice creams, which delighted Caron, and they sat at cafes and watched people go by, and it was like being on vacation.

 During the afternoons, Caron happily tagged along as Xander showed him around the city and ran small errands. He liked feeding crumbs to pigeons, but he especially loved the grocery store. If Xander had allowed it, he would have spent hours hovering over the candy selection, greedily eyeing the chocolate while being oblivious to the lecherous stares of most of the women and some of the men who walked by. But when one lady who was old enough to be Xander’s mother actually pinched Caron’s ass, making the angel yelp, Xander decided it was time for a little talk about the birds and the bees.

Of course, Caron must have had some inkling about sex, because each night he waited until Spike and Xander had collapsed in sticky bliss before he came padding into their room, smiling widely, and then climbed into bed with them. But Xander wasn’t certain what Caron knew about sex, and what the angel’s wants were in that regard. He stood at Billa, watching Caron earnestly try to bag their groceries, and decided he’d let Spike help with this particular discussion.

“Thought you’d abandoned me,” Spike said from the sofa when they returned home. He said it as if it were a joke, but there was just enough hint of old grief in his words that Xander paused with his arms still full of shopping bags and bent down to kiss the top of Spike’s head.

“Not on your unlife. Is that a telenovela you’re watching?”

Spike immediately clicked the TV off. “No.”

Xander snorted and went to put the food away. A few minutes later, Caron followed him back into the living room. Caron was munching on a sort of distant cousin of a Twinkie, a snack cake with a checkerboard pattern and chocolate filling. He’d already stripped off his clothing—his usual routine as soon as they got home—and Spike was wearing only a pair of unbuttoned jeans, which left Xander feeling distinctly overdressed. Xander sat on the couch, in between Spike and Caron.

“’T’s nearly dark out,” Spike said. “I reckon we should—”

“Yeah, in a few,” interrupted Xander. “But we need to talk first.”

Spike looked alarmed. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Who said anything was wrong?”

Spike shook his head. “Well, ‘We need to talk.’ Nothing good has ever come of that phrase.”

“Sorry.” Xander gently bonked his head into Spike’s. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I just thought maybe we should chat with Caron about the facts of life.”

Spike raised an eyebrow, while on Xander’s other side, Caron said, “Facts of life?”

“He means shagging,” Spike explained.

“Oh. Do you want to have sex now? I can leave the room.” He started to stand, but Xander kept him in place with a hand on his leg.

“Whoa. Not what I had in mind. Well, having sex with Spike is usually on my mind nowadays, but . . . not right this second. Caron, does it bug you when we have sex?”

“Bug me? No! You love each other and you make each other happy. I think you both must be very good at it.”

Spike chuckled and nuzzled up against Xander’s neck, which now perpetually bore pairs of tiny scabs. “My boy’s a right treat, he is. That lovely arse of his, those lips, the way he can move that monster between his legs—”

“TMI, Spike!” Xander cried. “Remember when we were talking to Caron about TMI? This is a good example.”

Spike laughed evilly.

Xander tried to gather his dignity, what there was of it, anyway. “My point, Caron, was that Spike and I have been getting a lot of nookie—”

“That’s more Xanderspeak for sex,” explained Spike.

“—and I wanted to make sure that it wasn’t bothering you, ’cause you’re not, um . . . You’re not.”

“I’ve never had sex,” Caron said. He sounded neither happy nor sad about it—just matter-of-fact.

“Oh. Do angels . . . do it?”

“Of course. But not until we find our partner.”

“That must be awkward,” Spike observed. “Two virgins at once.”

“We . . . They fly when they make love, sometimes.” That sentence did come out wistful, and Xander patted his shoulder.

“You’ll find someone, buddy. You will. You’re . . . special. And someday someone special enough to deserve you will come along.”

Caron smiled. “Thank you, Xander.” Then he glanced around, as if someone might be listening in, and bent slightly towards Xander. “It’s fun, though, isn’t it? It feels good?” He was almost whispering.

Spike leaned over Xander. “Feels bloody brilliant,” he stage-whispered back. And when Caron sighed, he added, “You could go the solo route, you know.”

“Solo route?”

“Wanking, mate.”

When Caron still looked confused, Xander decided it was his turn to interpret. “Masturbation. You, know, the DIY approach.”

Caron stared down at his own crotch as if such a thing had never occurred to him. Possibly it hadn’t. “I can . . . I can . . .”

“Self-love,” Xander informed him. “Also known as spanking the monkey, choking the chicken, beating your meat, flogging the bishop, slapping the salami, um . . .”

“Onanism,” Spike added.

“Whatever you call it, Caron, it won’t make you go blind—again—and you probably won’t grow hair on your palms.”

“But . . . how?”

Spike shrugged. “Just do what feels good.”

Caron was still staring at his groin, only now there was a little glitter in his eyes. “Can . . . When can I . . .?”

“Anytime you want, mate.”

“As long as you’re home!” Xander added hastily. “It’s not generally done with an audience.”

Caron nodded and then stood. “I’m going to try it now,” he announced.

Spike patted the angel’s butt. “Knock yourself out. There’s hand lotion in the loo—some blokes like that.”

Caron nodded again and then practically trotted out of the room. Xander scooted over until he was tight against his lover, and Spike clicked on the TV to what seemed to be a talent show with some remarkably untalented singers. They didn’t really watch the program, though; instead, their hands wandered a bit and they made out like a couple of teenagers. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, however, a triumphant shout came from Caron’s bedroom.

Xander gave Spike a look. “I think we’ve just corrupted an angel.”

Spike smiled, completely unconcerned. “A bit of corruption can be fun, love.”

[Chapter Twenty Two](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/292440.html)   


 

  



	23. Chapter 23

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 22 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h8zsc/)  
---  
  
  


**Chapter Twenty Two**

He didn’t mind that Xander and Caron were going out in the daylight without him. Well, not too much. He didn’t begrudge them their time in the sun, in any case, and he enjoyed Xander’s humorous descriptions of the angel’s rapture over a new flavor of gelato and his childlike delight in feeding the pigeons. And Spike really enjoyed nuzzling up to Xander while he spoke, scenting the odors that clung to him and drinking in the extra warmth. But Spike was a bit . . . well, jealous wasn’t quite it. Sad. It had been so long since he’d seen the sun, and a simple daytime stroll was something he would never be able to share with his boy. Caron’s magical influence aside, what if Xander grew tired of a nighttime lover?

It didn’t bear thinking of.

But when Xander and Caron came into the flat each afternoon, usually carrying groceries, Spike was always hard-pressed not to jump up and grab Xander and never, ever let him go. This afternoon was no different. Xander was laughing as they walked in the door, and Caron was laughing back, and for a hot, guilty moment Spike felt the urge to lock his boy in a cage and not let anyone else near him. But he violently tamped the feeling down, so that by the time Xander came into the living room and collapsed next to him on the sofa, Spike had a lazy smile plastered on his face instead. “Nice day, love?” he asked.

Xander gave him a squishy smooch on the cheek. “As nice as it can be without you. But you wouldn’t have had much fun anyway—I took Caron to visit some churches.”

“Churches?” Spike asked, his eyebrow arched.

“Yeah. I figured . . . well, angel. I figured he’d be interested. He liked the sparkly tile inside Basilica San Marco, and he loved this little fig tree that’s growing over a door on that big domed church near the end of the Grand Canal—”

“Santa Maria della Salute. It was built out of gratitude for deliverance from the plague.”

“Well, it didn’t impress Caron. Except for the fig tree. None of the churches impressed him much. He was way more interested in Paolo’s ice cream cart. And then on the way home, this really beautiful woman—she looked like a model, Spike—marched up and propositioned Caron in French.”

“He didn’t take her up on the offer?”

Xander snickered. “Nope. He said something back and she slapped his face before marching off. He told me afterwards what he’d said to her: ‘Sorry, miss, but I’m not interested. You should spank your monkey instead. I’ve been practicing and I’m pretty good at it.’”

They were still chortling together when Caron came into the room, smiling good-naturedly as always. And as always, he was naked and perfect, not a wrinkle on him, not a long, flowing hair out of place. The bits of his skin that had been exposed when he went outside were no longer marble-pale however; instead, they had become a golden tan. He sat at on the sofa with them.

“You haven’t been enjoying the churches?” Spike asked curiously.

“Oh, they’re pretty. It’s nice of Xander to show them to me. But I like the candy store better—you know, the one with the chocolates wrapped in shiny foil, and the marzipan shaped like fruits? And I like the machines in the back of the internet café. The ones that have bright lights and make all the noise. And there’s a building that’s my favorite: pink with pretty arched windows, and a lion’s head on the door.”

“But the churches don’t mean anything special to you.”

Caron shrugged. “Xander says they’re places where people go to talk to God, to ask for things or say thank you. I suppose that’s nice, being surrounded by paintings and things while you sit there. But I think if I talked to God, I would do it while I was eating a crepe with Nutella.” He squinted at Spike. “Where do you talk to God?”

“I don’t,” Spike said with a snort. “Whatever gods there are don’t want to listen to the likes of me.”

“Why not, Spike?”

“Demon, mate. Remember? And the things I’ve done . . .” Spike gave an involuntary little shiver at the memories, and Xander squeezed him tight.

“You’ve done a lot of good things too,” Xander insisted. “Saving the world, for instance. Doesn’t that count?”

“Doesn’t bring back a single person I murdered, doesn’t undo all the pain I’ve caused. I’m not Peaches, love. I don’t reckon that my fate is some sort of balance sheet, and I can earn redemption if the good ticks outnumber the bad ones.”

“Then why do it, Spike? Why keep putting your neck on the line if it doesn’t matter?”

“Dunno,” Spike said with a sigh, because he couldn’t articulate an answer even to himself.

“But it _does_ matter,” Caron said firmly. “Even if you only saved one person, it matters a lot to that one person. It means everything. I know—you saved me.”

Spike looked at the angel and felt an unaccustomed surge of pride. He had saved Caron—Xander had insisted on it, yeah, but Spike had helped—and that wretched, wrecked creature had become a whole and happy man. Spike didn’t harbor any false expectations that that act or any of the others he’d performed since he earned his soul would save him from hell when he dusted. But maybe the memory of the good he had done would give him some small solace as he burned in eternal flames.

***

It was a good night. The three of them wandered about as usual, stopping at an osteria for glasses of decent wine—Caron had appalled the owner by ordering Coke instead—and then later at a restaurant perched alongside a canal. Xander ate some grilled sardines and bread, and all three of them watched the lights of passing boats and listened to the water lapping softly at the piers.

The succubus strolled by, still wearing the face of a pretty girl, still carrying her stupid straw purse. Her face had lit up when she spied Caron, but then her grin turned immediately to a frown when she saw that he was with Spike and Xander. “No fair!” she said, stomping a flip-flopped foot. Her toenails were painted orange.

“What’s no fair?” Spike asked. Xander just eyed her as if she might steal his dick any minute.

“You already had one handsome guy, and now you have Fabio here, too. Why are all the good ones vampire-lovers? Share!”

Spike decided that there was no reason to let her know that Caron wasn’t his, at least not like Xander was. In fact, he was going to tell her to bugger off, but Xander—that soft-hearted, hardheaded pillock—piped up. “Want to have a drink with us?”

Spike looked at his boy as if he were insane, which he very likely was. But Xander only smiled apologetically. “She looks so sad.”

“She’s a _succubus_. An evil, energy-draining monster.”

By then, she had already plopped down into a vacant chair. “I am not evil, bloodsucker. Just hungry.” She pointed a long, lacquered fingernail at him. “And I guarantee you, every guy I feed from leaves with a smile on his face.”

“Except when they’re dead.”

“Even when they’re dead. They die satisfied.” 

The waiter came by and she ordered a Bellini. Then she twisted in her seat a little to look at Caron. “What’s your deal, sweetie? A fangbanger? What’s the attraction anyway? I’ve got a heartbeat, I’ve got a body temperature, and I’ve got these.” She cupped her tits through her dress.

“They’re very nice,” Caron said diplomatically. “Squishy.”

She was still glaring at him when the waiter brought her drink. She took a big, noisy slurp, then looked at Spike again. “What are you doing hanging around here anyway?”

“Fancied a holiday.”

“Right,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “You’re not one of his flunkies, are you?”

“Whose flunkies?” Spike asked sharply, leaning forward in his seat.

“You know. Mr. Toad.”

“Da Ponte?”

“Duh!” She took another loud drink and looked speculatively at a pair of university-age boys who had settled nearby.

Spike moved his body to block her line of sight. “What do you know about da Ponte?”

The succubus’s face grew very shrewd, and for a split second her true age was almost revealed. Then she sprawled back in her chair and looked smug. “I know some stuff.”

“What stuff?” growled Spike.

“Oh . . . I don’t know. Just stuff.”

Spike wanted to rip off her head and throw it into the lagoon. But Xander’s hand was on his knee, squeezing hard, reminding Spike to remain as calm as possible. “What is it you want?” Spike said through gritted teeth.

She smiled triumphantly. “A kiss.”

“I wouldn’t kiss you if—”

“Not from you, stupid! What good is smooching a corpse gonna do me? I mean from one of them.” She waved at Xander and Caron. “Just one little kiss.”

Only Xander’s grip on his leg kept Spike from springing at her. “You are not going to touch—”

“I’ll do it,” Caron interrupted. Everybody looked at him and he smiled. “I don’t mind. I’d like to try it, actually.”

“She’s a demon, mate. She’ll suck away at your energy.”

“Only a little!” the succubus insisted. “Just a teeny tiny taste.”

“I don’t mind,” Caron repeated.

Spike considered rejecting the offer anyway. But the information she had might prove useful, and all their other leads had come to dead ends. Besides, the angel was a big boy and could make his own choices. Spike wasn’t his keeper. “Fine,” he said sullenly. “But spill first.”

She wiggled a little in her seat. “Okey-doke. So, I got into town a few months ago, right? I’d been in Paris. I know, I know, The City of Love, it’s kinda clichéd, but the pickings are easy there and it’s one of my old fallbacks. But I got to wanting a little more variety in my diet, and first I was thinking Barcelona, ’cause beaches, right? And I could work on my tan. Or maybe Portugal, but—”

“Da Ponte,” Spike growled.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. So anyway, I ended up here. Usually I avoid the place ’cause the ministers aren’t very friendly to me. But I was passing through and I was hungry. And these guys picked me up! Not the guards, but these other goons. Demons. And they drag me to da Ponte and I figure my goose is cooked, even though all I’d done was have a teensy tourist snack or two. But instead of having me executed or something, that little jerk looks me up and down like a I’m a side of meat. It was sexual harassment! And he makes me explain how I feed, which totally creeped me out because I thought he wanted to screw me and eww. But he didn’t. Probably can’t get it up anyway.” She sniffed dismissively and finished off her Bellini.

“What did he want?” Spike asked, this time more wearily than angrily.

“He wanted to know if I could work backwards—if I could give energy to someone instead of taking it away. As if! Which is what I told him.”

“And?”

“And his goons let me go. He even said I could stick around as long as I kept a low profile. Which I have, mostly.”

“Why would he want you around?”

“Dunno. He said I might come in useful. But he didn’t say for what. I was gonna take off, but then there was this boatload of Austrian tourists and, well, the hunting’s just too good here to pass up.” She crossed her arms. “And that’s it. Now pay up.”

Spike still wanted to kill her. But he had promised, and his boy would probably make a fuss over it, and besides they were in a very public place. So he scowled at her instead. “Fine. But if I see you after this—”

“Save the threats, cadaver. I’m gonna blow this popsicle stand anyway. Bored with it. Now that the weather’s warming up I’m thinking the Croatian islands are sounding pretty tempting. Hvar maybe, or Pag. Or maybe I’ll go for Dubrovnik instead. Cruise ships, you know.”

She stood, pushing her chair back with a loud scrape. Then she straddled Caron’s lap, which had not been part of their agreement but Caron didn’t object. He blinked at her and pursed his lips. She grabbed his shoulders, leaned forward, and pressed her mouth to his.

The kiss lasted only a few seconds. Caron didn’t move away, but he didn’t seem particularly involved; his heartbeat stayed slow and even and his hands remained at his sides. The succubus, however, was making tiny pleased sounds, much like the ones Caron—and Xander, for that matter—made when eating especially good chocolate. Spike found himself a bit envious—the angel always smelled so delicious, and he must taste even better.

But then, quite suddenly, the succubus screeched, and she scrambled off Caron so quickly she nearly fell. “What did you do?” she cried.

Caron shook his head. “I  . . . I don’t know. I kissed you. I don’t—”

She didn’t let him finish. She shrieked again and stumbled a step or two backwards. And then, right in front of everyone’s astounded eyes, she began to swell. It was as if she were a balloon being filled with air, except she stayed fully grounded. Her body grew round and her face puffed out, chins and more chins developing until it was hard to distinguish face from neck. Her dress split along the seams; although she continued to stay mostly covered, her plastic flip-flops were forced to pieces by her newly enormous feet.

She stopped growing after two or three minutes, but by then, instead of a slender girl, she looked to weigh five or six hundred pounds. “What did you _do_?” she wailed.

Caron looked distressed. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! I only—”

She turned around and waddled away as fast as her legs would carry her.

“Wow,” Xander said. “You don’t see that every day.”

“I’m sorry! I really am! I didn’t mean to harm her.” Caron’s face had gone pale and his green eyes were wide.

“’S all right,” Spike said soothingly. “She’ll recover, I expect. Eventually. She’s not any worse off than I was when I tried to drink your blood that time. You were just too filling a meal for her.” He looked around at the other customers and the three waiters, all of whom looked shocked. “Let’s get home before this becomes more of a mess, yeah?”

Caron nodded and stood, Xander threw some money on the table, and together they all headed back to the flat. As soon as they stepped inside, Caron began to strip, but Spike had visions of naked Xander dancing in his head. He’d rather have had naked Xander dancing in his bed, and by the leer on his boy’s face, Xander’s thoughts were running very much in the same direction. But before they could actually implement their unspoken plan, the buzzer sounded.

“I thought you had blood delivered last night,” Xander said, because the delivery bloke was the only person who ever called on them.

“I did.” Spike strode to the door. “Stay here.”

“No way, Jose.”

So, naturally, Xander was right on Spike’s heels as they walked the short distance through the courtyard. At least Xander had a stake in one hand, while his other hand tugged at his trouser leg, giving him better access to the knife in his boot if necessary.

But it wasn’t an Ulorar that waited for them when Spike opened the building’s door, nor any other demon, for that matter. It was just a man, a skinny bloke in his mid-thirties, with a hawklike nose and thinning hair. Spike realized he recognized him: one of the waiters at L’Uccello Nero. The man’s narrow face was very pale and his eyes were rimmed in red.

“Per favore, signore,” the man said. “You must come now. It is la signora.”  
[  
Chapter Twenty Three](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/292729.html)  


  



	24. Chapter 24

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 23 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h9gtp/)  
---  
  
  
  


**Chapter Twenty Three**

It was hard to keep up. The waiter wasn’t very tall but he was fast; Spike had vampire speed and Caron had those long legs, but Xander was just as human and average as always. So he was at the rear of their little parade, and he’d abandoned his dignity several bridges ago as he struggled to keep up.

He was surprised to discover they weren’t heading in the direction of L’Uccello Nero, and he didn’t have any idea where they were going, except that they had to cross the Grand Canal to get there. Spike had tried to ask the waiter what the problem was, but the waiter had only shaken his head and urged them to hurry.

They flew over the Accademia Bridge, then twisted along a few streets, heading roughly east, Xander thought, and paralleling the canal. It was an artsy sort of neighborhood; the closed shops were mainly galleries selling prints and weird sculptures. One of them looked like a giant upside down lightbulb, and as he rushed by, Xander wondered why someone would pay thousands of dollars for something like that. But then his idea of good art mostly involved comic books, so maybe he wasn’t a very good judge of such things. Then he remembered that poor Caron had spent several centuries as nothing more than decoration, and Xander was filled with a sudden and irrational dislike for art collectors in general.

It was probably just as well that they reached their destination just then. It was a fancy house—Spike called them palazzos—but sort of a weird one because it was only one story tall. It looked like someone had lopped off the top or had forgotten to finish the construction in the first place. It was of white stone, with elegant windows covered in fancy iron scrolls. The waiter led them to a gate built into a brick wall; the gate opened immediately, and then they were in a large courtyard filled with beautiful trees, a few of which Xander could have sworn grew in northern Africa, not northern Italy. A wisteria in full and extravagant bloom stretched over a long arbor, beneath which were several wooden tables and chairs. The courtyard was scented so heavily with flowers that Xander sneezed twice.

But they weren’t there to admire the garden. They walked up a set of low, wide steps to a large glass door that was set in the middle of the house, and they found themselves in a sort of reception room filled with incongruously modern furniture. Xander was momentarily surprised that Spike was able to enter without an invitation, but of course this must be the signora’s house, and because she wasn’t human, maybe formalities of that sort weren’t required. Or maybe she’d pre-invited him when she sent the waiter for them.

“One moment, per favore,” the waiter said, then disappeared through a side door.

The three of them waited. Caron poked at an oddly twisted red plastic thing that may or may not have been a chair, Spike stared out the glass and into the garden—for some reason the wisteria made him scowl—and Xander just stood and fidgeted. He was relieved when the waiter returned a few minutes later. “This way, please.”

They went down a long hallway with bare white walls and were shown into a living room, or a fancy equivalent thereof. The walls were painted a sandy color and hung with colorful tapestries, the trim around the windows and doors was shiny and golden, the floor was terra cotta tile, the furniture was ornately carved, and the chairs and couches had rich velvet cushions. “Pretty!” Caron exclaimed, drawing closer to a table on which there was a complicated candelabra set with a dozen fat white candles. The flames burned an odd red-gold color, and Xander was going to warn the angel to stay away, but then a door opened—not the one through which they had entered—and Signora Bennu walked into the room.

She was dressed in a long robe of shiny silver fabric. She still looked elegant and her back was very straight, but her hair was slightly mussed and her eyes looked puffy. Xander was familiar with the look: a woman who was really upset about something but trying desperately to hold herself together.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she said.

“What’s wrong?” asked Spike.

But she shook her head and gestured at a couch. “Please. Sit down. Luciano will bring us some tea.”

Xander wanted to tell her they hadn’t come over for a tea party, but Spike shot him a warning look and dragged him down next to him on the couch. Caron sat on Xander’s other side. The signora, maintaining impeccable posture, sank down onto a throne-like chair across from them. She smoothed the fabric of her gown over her knees, carefully removing every last fold and wrinkle as if having perfectly smooth clothing was really important. Nobody said anything, but somewhere far away, Xander thought he heard a small bird cheeping.

He startled slightly when Luciano—the waiter who had fetched them—returned with a tray, setting it on a small table next to the signora. She poured from a silver urn into small glass cups. Xander smelled mint. “Moroccan,” she said quietly. “I do hope that will be all right.”

“’T’s fine,” said Spike when he accepted his cup.

For a few minutes they all sat there with their glasses. Xander burned his tongue when he sipped at his tea, but Caron made a pleased noise over his, probably because it had been heavily sweetened. “May I offer you some biscuits, perhaps?” the signora asked. “Or something else?”

Xander remembered her meal and tried not to make a face.

But Spike drained his glass and set it on the table beside him. “No, thank you. Erm, it’s getting late, and soon the sunrise—”

“Of course. I do apologize. I . . . My mind is quite gone tonight.” She shook her head, set her own glass down, and then in a calm, clear voice said, “L’Uccello Nero burned this morning.”

“What?!” exclaimed Spike, Xander, and Caron in unison.

“My restaurant. My beautiful restaurant.” A sound like a sob escaped her. She turned her head away for a moment and closed her eyes tightly. When she looked at them again she was expressionless. “The chef and his assistants had gone to the Rialto Market to purchase fish and vegetables. When they returned, the restaurant was in flames. Thankfully, nobody was harmed, but the entire building is nothing but ashes now.”

Caron handed his glass to Xander and stood. He walked over to Signora Bennu’s chair, knelt, and rested his head in her lap. “I’m sorry, signora,” he whispered.

She looked surprised at first and not sure what to do, but then she gave his head a tentative pat, and another, and soon she was running her tiny fingers through his long hair, like someone might pet a Persian cat. Maybe it soothed her, because the tense lines of her body seemed to ease a little.

“Was it a grease fire?” Xander asked.

“No. None of the stoves had been lit yet.”

“Electrical? The building was pretty old, and I’ve seen a lot of wiring here that would give an American building inspector nightmares for weeks.”

“It was not the electricity.”

Spike said, “But you know what it was, yeah?”

She nodded and continued stroking Caron’s hair. “Yes. Yesterday afternoon I received a message from il ministro dei demoni. He sent it via some of those . . . ruffians he employs.”

Spike’s eyes sharpened with interest and he stood. “What did that tosser want?”

“You.”

Spike blinked at her. “Pardon?”

“Da Ponte wished for me to lure you to a particular place tonight—Calle della Morte—where he intended to have his thugs ambush you.”

Spike snorted. “Old wanker has a sense of humor, hasn’t he? What did you tell him?”

“I do not act upon the bidding of low creatures such as he, and I certainly do not betray my friends.”

Spike actually bowed slightly. “Cheers.”

“So he torched your place in revenge?” asked Xander.

“It would seem so.”

“I’m sorry, signora. We didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

Her fingers carded through Caron’s hair, straightening imaginary tangles. “I know,” she responded quietly. “And please realize that I do not blame you in the least.”

Xander sort of wished she did blame them—it might make him feel better. “Look, I’m pretty handy with a hammer. I’m not saying I can build a whole restaurant by myself or anything, and I’m not exactly up on sixteenth-century architecture, but I can help out, and I bet Spike and Caron can at least carry lumber or something.”

She gave him a sad smile. “Thank you, child. But I do not think I will rebuild. I have been in Venezia a very long time, and perhaps now is a good time to move on. I have started anew more than once before and it does give one a fresh perspective.” Her hand stilled, and then she gently tugged at Caron’s shoulders. “Come, let us enjoy what remains of this lovely night instead of remaining indoors, breathing stale air.”

Caron stood and held out his hand to her. She took it and stood—her smile dwarfed by his—and arm in arm they walked back down the hallway and out another glass door opposite the one through which they had entered her house. Spike and Xander followed them onto a long stone veranda that ran along the canal. A fancy gilded gondola was tied to what must have been her private dock, and there were trees in enormous pots and more flowers. But what really caught Xander’s eye was a sculpture, a black stone statue of a man on horseback. The man was nude, with his arms spread wide, and as Xander circled around to the front of the statue he saw that the man was _really_ excited to be riding that horse.

Caron looked worriedly at the statue, and the signora patted his arm reassuringly. “It is only stone, my dear. A fine piece of art, but there is nothing enchanted about it.”

Caron cocked his head. “He looks very happy.”

Xander and Spike both snorted, and even the signora smiled. “Yes, he does. And do you know what? The sculpture is entitled L’Angelo della Città.”

“The angel of the city,” Caron translated, possibly for Xander’s benefit. “But he doesn’t have wings.”

“One can be an angel without wings, a good man without a heartbeat, a hero without special powers.” She patted his arm again and then walked to the railing, looking out at the lights on the opposite side of the canal. Caron remained looking at the statue, but Spike and Xander joined her.

“Do you know why he wanted me?” Spike asked. “It doesn’t sound as if he simply meant to dust me.”

“No, it doesn’t. But I’m afraid I don’t know what he did want.” She sighed. “I’ve loved this city. But when you become old as I am, you learn that nothing remains static forever. And really, I am thankful that it is so, because change is what makes existence interesting.”

“We’ll stop him, signora. Don’t know yet what he’s up to, exactly, but we’ll stop him and he’ll pay for what he’s done to you.”

“You are a very sweet boy,” Signora Bennu said. “But be cautious. You are not indestructible, and even a cat uses up its lives eventually. And this is why I called you here—not to blame you nor to ask for assistance, but to warn you.”

“And I thank you for it, signora,” said Spike.

Maybe talking had calmed her a little, or maybe it was just Caron’s presence, but Xander thought he detected a sense of peace in her that hadn’t been there when they arrived. She walked them out to her courtyard, and before they left she spent a few minutes strolling with Caron, pointing out various fragrant plants and encouraging him to bury his nose in the blossoms. Then they thanked her once more—Spike astounded Xander by actually kissing the back of her hand—and they left.

It was nearly sunrise. They walked quickly and didn’t speak along the way, each lost in his own thoughts. For his part, Xander was mostly worrying about Spike, wondering what the hell da Ponte wanted with him. Xander considered throwing in the towel and trying to drag Spike back to London. But he was pretty sure that Spike wouldn’t let himself be dragged, especially after he’d made that promise to the signora, and really Xander wanted to resolve the situation too. So he remained silent, but his stomach tied itself in knots no sailor would ever be able to undo.

***

“Love . . . ,” Spike said, pillowing his head on Xander’s thigh, making the bare skin tickle, “relax.”

“I am relaxed,” Xander lied. Caron was already in his bed and Spike and Xander were in theirs, but Xander was sitting up straight, too keyed up to lie down on the mattress despite being next to a beautiful naked vampire.

“Da Ponte’s not going to come after us tonight and even if he did, your people promised us they’ve warded our flat. Your witch is powerful enough to do that even from California, I expect.”

“Yeah, that’s great. Except we can’t stay locked up in here forever, Spike.”

“Oh, I dunno. We could find ways to entertain ourselves for some time, I reckon.” Spike ran a fingertip along the line of dark hair under Xander’s navel.

“Man—and vampire—can’t survive on sex alone.”

“They can bloody well try.”

“I can’t think about sex right now anyway. Maybe I should call HQ.”

“’T’s four in the morning there. I doubt they’d be happy to hear from you.”

“Maybe . . . maybe we should leave Venice.”

Spike rolled his head slightly so he could look up at Xander with one skeptical eye. “Never known you to run from a fight. Not even when you were a clumsy little pup.”

“Oh, I ran. I ran plenty.”

Spike stuck a cool finger into Xander’s navel, then traced around the edges before moving his hand north to play with Xander’s chest hairs. “You’ve stood up to things much scarier than il ministro. I’ve seen you. What has you so spooked, pet?”

“You do! I mean . . . God, Spike, I lost someone I really cared about once before. It hurt, hurt worse than having a psycho preacher-man poke out your eye.”

Spike’s hand stopped its restless movements and, after a brief pause, Spike sat up. “You loved your demon girl. Of course it hurt.”

Xander took a deep breath and let it out. He considered keeping his idiot mouth closed, for once. But he hadn’t been honest with Anya about how he felt, and that had been a fucking disaster. And now—now, who knew how much longer he had with Spike? “I loved Anya,” Xander said. “Not the way she deserved, but yeah.” Spike was looking away, so Xander cupped his chin and moved his head so they were looking eye-to-eye. “I love you, Spike. God, who would have thought that sequence of words would ever leave my lips! But I do.”

“’T’s just the angel,” Spike mumbled.

“Maybe. I mean at first, maybe it was. But now . . . I guess I’ve had a chance to see that there’s a lot about you to love. And I don’t just mean the sexy package.”

Spike blinked rapidly and his jaw worked. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Someday you’ll want to stake me because you said this to me.”

“I don’t think so.” Xander let his hand drop, but didn’t drop his gaze. “This thing with you, it feels . . . Willow gave me a puzzle for my ninth birthday. It had rocket ships on it and the moon, and it glowed in the dark. I wanted to be an astronaut when I was nine.”

Spike muttered something that sounded like “Caveman wins.” Xander ignored him.

“That puzzle had 500 pieces, and I spent an entire afternoon putting it together on the kitchen table. But before I was finished Tony came home and he yelled at me for making a mess, and he swiped the whole thing onto the floor. I picked up the pieces and took them into my room and started all over again, because I wanted to finish the damn thing. But when I did, three of the pieces were missing. I looked all over the fucking kitchen for those pieces but I never found them.” 

When Spike patted his knee consolingly, Xander smiled. “It’s okay. I mean, I got over the trauma. But the thing is, I’ve been that puzzle. Mostly complete, right? There’s the rocket ships and the moon and the little stars. But one of the rockets is missing a booster and one has a big hole in the middle—a really bad idea in space—and the moon has a little chunk of one edge gone. But now with you, it’s like I found those pieces. I’m what I’m supposed to be, the full picture. And I don’t think that’s gonna change even if the angel-power runs out.”

“I always pick the daft ones,” Spike said, but then he folded Xander into an embrace and whispered in his ear: “I love you too.”

Xander sighed. He’d given up ever hearing those words from someone. “So then you get it,” he said. “You understand why I’m worried about you.”

“I understand. But you can’t wrap me in cotton wool and hide me in a cupboard, love. I’m a vampire and danger is part of the package. Not going to buy a condo and take up knitting or growing begonias.”

“Actually, I know how to knit,” Xander said. Spike pulled away to give him a look. “I hurt my hand fighting this green oozy thing and the doc said I needed physical therapy and . . . I can make you a scarf if you want.”

“Daft,” Spike said, shaking his head.

“Daft but deft.”

Spike poked Xander in the belly. “The point, whelp, is that I’m not safe and never will be. Wouldn’t be happy if I were, really. I spent my entire human life safe—and I was a miserable little sod, scurrying about with inkstains on his fingers.”

Xander nodded because he knew what Spike meant. There was a time when Xander would have given anything for a normal, monster-free life, the kind with the picket fence (that was not used to dust vampires) and the two adorable children (who were never possessed by demons) and the nine-to-five job (that didn’t involve killing anything). But he’d given up that fantasy years ago, and now he didn’t even want it anymore. He might not have volunteered for duty, but fighting bad guys was what he did, and it was all he knew. His life would be empty without the supernatural. 

But none of this meant he was happy to see his lover endangered. He sighed again, and when Spike enfolded him in strong arms once more, Xander just rested his head on Spike’s shoulder and didn’t feel the least bit frisky.

“No use brooding and wasting whatever time we do have,” Spike said.

“Not brooding.”

“Pouting?”

Xander tried to poke Spike back, but the vampire was too quick; he darted out of Xander’s arms and off the bed, and then stood there, hipshot and beautiful. Spike wrapped his left hand around his cock and began to lazily stroke it, but he kept his eyes on Xander. “Are you really going to force me to wank all by my lonesome?”

“You were the one touting the benefits of solo sex to our angel.”

“Solo can be lovely, but it’s not nearly as much fun as sinking into a hot, hard body. Or having a big, hot cock sink into me. Fill me up. With hot breaths on my skin and a heartbeat battering against me, and the scent of you, Xander, and the taste of you on my tongue.”

As he spoke, Spike continued to fondle himself, and Xander decided that possibly Spike’s mouth should be classified as a weapon, with those sweet dirty words and the pink lips and the tongue that was now curled just so. Xander couldn’t stop his own hand from moving to his lap, where it found his growing erection. His hand began to move in tandem with Spike’s.

“That’s right, love. Feels good, yeah? But not as good as if it were me touching you. I can remain right here, miles and miles away. Or I can climb back onto the bed, and I can suck one of your lovely brown nipples into my mouth. Nibble on it just a bit. ’T’s all nice and puckered, waiting for me, isn’t it?”

Xander’s free hand crept to his chest and confirmed Spike’s words. Yep. Waiting. “Spike—”

“Shh. See, if I had my mouth on you, I could bite a bit harder now, just enough to make it hurt, to bring a drop of blood to the surface. And I’d suck on the little wound, drawing from you—feeding from you like a child—and you’d feel the tingle of it across your chest, through every vein and artery, down your spine and in your balls. I’d wager you’d beg me for more, wouldn’t you?”

Xander answered without meaning to. “Yes. Please—more.”

Spike’s smile was evil. “But I wouldn’t give it to you, not yet. I’d torture you first. Lick along every rib. Blow against your collarbone. Tickle my fingers along every scar, every freckle. I would suck on your toes, pet. Move every one of the ten in and out of my mouth and you’d wish it were your cock instead, but I wouldn’t touch that. Wouldn’t let you touch it either. I’d threaten to spank you if you did.”

“Not much of a threat there,” Xander admitted.

Spike’s eyes widened and the pupils grew darker. Their hands moved a little faster. “’T’s like that, is it?”

“It . . . can be. Sometimes.” Because Anya had taught him a lot of things, and lots of ways to enjoy his body. Being fucked and bitten by a vampire was not the kinkiest thing he’d ever experienced.

“Hmm,” Spike said, the way a treasure hunter might gloat over an especially shiny gem. “How do you like it, then, my boy? Arse-up over my knees? A wide wooden paddle?”

“Hand,” Xander admitted. “I like hands.”

“Good. I do as well. The heat from your body working its way through my palm, your cheeks all nice and red. Your cock so hard and desperate for just a bit of friction. And then I’d stick a finger into your twitching, greedy little hole—”

“Spike!” Xander said, this time slightly desperately.

Faster than Xander’s eyes could track, Spike pounced. He landed next to Xander, making the entire mattress shake violently, and then tugged at Xander until he was flat on his back. Immediately, Spike climbed on board. There was frantic rubbing, the soft crunch of shifting bones, and the sweet sting of fangs sinking into flesh. “Spike!” Xander yelled one more time, this time as he came.

Spike must have climaxed almost simultaneously, because then he was licking delicately at Xander’s neck and kissing Xander’s cheek. He rolled off but scooched tightly against Xander’s body. “See? Better than wanking.”

“Much,” admitted Xander.

“Know what else?”

Xander was exhausted, but Spike’s throaty voice still made his soft cock twitch valiantly. “What?”

“Wouldn’t mind being bent over your knees, either.”

“Gah!” Xander cried, despairing of ever maintaining a proper mope with his amazing vampire lover around.

[Chapter Twenty Four](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/293031.html)   


  



	25. Chapter 25

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 24 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001haddf/)  
---  
  
  
  


**Chapter Twenty Four**

Spike tried to remember when somebody had last worried about him, had truly cared about his welfare. Dru had loved him in her own way, he reckoned, but had been too addled to be concerned about him. If it had been he who was wounded in Prague, he knew she never would have made the effort to mend him. And although she had pulled him out of the church when that bloody organ had snapped his spine, she would have eventually wandered away and left him to starve if Angelus hadn’t made an appearance. And if Spike had been dusted during their years together, she would have mourned him only briefly before moving on.

Buffy hadn’t loved him, despite what she’d said to him those last moments in Sunnydale. Likely never could love someone like him, someone who had done the things to her that he had. There had been something between them though, and he believed that she respected him. Liked him, even. But he also knew that she wouldn’t hesitate to throw him to the lions if she thought doing so would make the world safer. Perhaps that was even part of her job description, a necessary callousness. In any case, even in Sunnydale she hadn’t lost sleep over his well-being.

And who did that leave? Angel? Too caught up in himself and his problems, whatever incarnation he was in.

The last person to care about Spike—the _only_ one before Xander—was William’s mother, so very long ago.

Being cared about was a lovely feeling, a warming feeling. It made him want to lift his chin high and to write terrible poetry. But it also meant that there was a price to pay for his lifestyle: the knowledge that if he were hurt, someone dear to him would be hurt as well. He hadn’t lied when he had whispered those words in Xander’s ear. The boy was dear to him, as precious as Spike’s own hard-won soul. And Spike knew to a certainty that whatever had begun their attraction, Caron or not, Spike’s love for Xander would not evaporate once the angel was gone. Spike wasn’t made like that. Yeah, he’d fancied a few casual flings over the years and some quick and furious fucks, but once he fell for someone, that someone was etched in his heart and mind and soul forever. Yes, Spike could move on if circumstances forced it—he had before—but not without as much gut-wrenching agony as if some important part of him had been amputated, and not without a permanent bruise to his psyche. In fact, he wasn’t at all certain he could survive another separation from someone he adored. Death’s hold on him was tenuous, the flames of hell hadn’t destroyed him, but losing Xander—that might just be the final straw.

“Right then,” Spike said to himself. “Just have to make sure neither of us gets destroyed.”

“That sounds like an excellent plan,” said Xander, and kissed Spike’s cheek.

“Sorry. Thought you were sound asleep.”

Xander sat up and stretched his arms high. “You were brooding too loudly.”

“I don’t broo—” Spike began, and then squinted at Xander suspiciously. “A bloke might think you were trying to get shagged.”

“A bloke would be absolutely correct,” Xander said with a grin. And then he fell on top of Spike, tickling whichever bits of skin he could get his fingers on.

“Vampires are not ticklish!” Spike protested.

“Oh. Then you wouldn’t care if I did _this_ , or _this_ , or even . . . _this_.”

Spike retaliated, of course, and soon the two of them were wriggling and squirming and wrestling, and first the blanket got shoved off the bed, then the pillows, and finally Spike and Xander landed on the floor with twin thumps. Which should have cooled things down—the floor was bloody hard—but then so were they, and Spike had ended up half on top of Xander, who showed no desire to push him off. Their hands continued to wander, but now the game had changed and tickling was no longer the goal. Instead, they exchanged soft caresses and teasing tweaks, long hard strokes and light fluttery pats.

Xander groaned when Spike dismounted, but he was gone only long enough to grab the bottle of slick from the bedside table. And then Xander was watching, eyes wide and hands clutching convulsively at nothing, as Spike prepared himself. One slippery finger and then two, and it wasn’t nearly enough, wasn’t what Spike wanted. Spike was hurried, and there was a bit of a burn when he impaled himself, but he didn’t care. Soon Spike was flexing his thighs, moving himself up and down, while Xander held onto Spike’s hips and bucked his own as much as he was able, all the while uttering a constant stream of filth and endearments that encouraged Spike all the more.

It didn’t take long—soon enough, Xander cried out and bowed his back. As he did so, he grabbed Spike’s cock in one calloused palm—a bit too hard, in fact, but Spike was well past being bothered about that—and stripped it, so that short moments later it was Spike’s turn to shout, and his spend was spurting thickly onto Xander’s hand, chest, and face.

Without disengaging himself, Spike bent down and licked Xander’s face clean. Xander groaned. “That’s the best part of waking up,” he said.

Spike sighed and, with a slightly embarrassing squishy sound, rolled off Xander to lie beside him. “Floor’s cold,” he observed.

“And it’s killing my back.”

“If we shag one another to death we won’t have to worry about il ministro and his schemes.”

“I’ve said it before. There are worse ways to go.” Xander scooted sideways a bit so he could settle his head on Spike’s chest. “God, this can’t last, you know. It’s too good. Good stuff never lasts long.”

Spike ran slightly sticky fingers through Xander’s mussed hair. “It could. We could start a new trend.”

Xander sighed. “You make me mushy. I’m not a mushy guy. You’re all with the love poems, but me—the most romantic thing I ever did for anyone was to surprise Anya by repairing a sticking dresser drawer.”

“Everyone has different ways to show they care, pet.”

“Yeah, except me because I suck at it. Truly. And then I fall for the formerly-evil-undead and I start declaring my love all over the place.”

“I’m glad. ’T’s nice to hear, yeah?”

“Yeah. It is.” Xander continued to stare up at the ceiling. “And you know what? If you wrote me a sonnet or something I wouldn’t even laugh.”

“I’ll work on it,” Spike promised. “In the meantime, I’ll nick from old Will:

_But thy eternal Summer shall not fade_

_Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;_

_Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,_

_When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:_

 

 _ So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, _

_ So long lives this, and this gives life to thee _ .”

“Does that mean I’m always gonna be young and pretty, Spike? ’Cause I won’t. Gray hairs, remember?”

“It means whatever happens, you’ll always be beautiful to me.”

Xander smiled widely. “I bet you say that to all the guys.”

***

“Jesus Christ. I’m ready to poke my eye out again just for the novelty of it.” Xander rolled his head melodramatically on the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling as if his salvation would come from there.

“We’ll go out once the sun sets,” promised Spike.

“Yeah, but that’s,” Xander peered at the little box under the television, “three and a half hours from now. Three and a half hours, Spike. That’s . . . 210 more minutes of Italian game shows. I bet even Angelus never tortured anyone so fiendishly.”

“Constant whinging doesn’t help.”

“Doesn’t hurt either.”

Before Spike could retort, Caron stepped into the fray. “You could go have sex,” he suggested brightly.

Xander turned his head to glare at Caron, who was sprawled nudely and obliviously on some cushions on the floor. “We did, Caron. Twice already today.”

“Three times,” Spike reminded him. “When you were bent over, fetching your laundry from the washing machine, and I—”

“Fine. Three times. I'm human. My dick’s about ready to go on strike. And God knows I never thought I’d utter these words, but I am bored with sex.”

Spike gave him a reproachful look. “Oi!”

“Not bored with you,” Xander said, and patted Spike’s knee. “Just . . . I’m tired of these walls. It’s been a week since I saw the sunlight. I’m used to doing a lot of work at night, but I usually get out at least a little during the day. I feel like I’m in prison. Okay, a prison with handsome cellmates and a lot of great sex, but still prison. And we’re not any closer to finding out what old ugly is up to either. I don’t see the sunlight at the end of the tunnel.”

Spike understood what his boy was feeling, and was miserable over the fact that because of him, Xander was being deprived of the day. But he wasn’t about to allow Xander to leave the flat unprotected. “’M sorry you ended up with a lover who’s stuck in the dark,” he said.

“I’m not. I mean, I’m not sorry I ended up with you. You know that. But I’m gonna go completely Loony Tunes if I don’t get out of here soon.”

Spike sighed and toppled a little to the side, so that his head was against Xander’s shoulder. “Go back to London. Wait for me there. Not that there’s much sun there, but you can go out in the gloom.”

“Not a fucking chance,” Xander said wearily. They had already had that particular argument almost as often as they'd had sex, and Xander had proven himself as stubborn as Spike.

“As soon as it’s dark I’ll go tear the bastard’s head off. That’ll sort things.”

“You can’t, Spike. We can’t just kill him.”

“Why not?”

Xander sighed. “He’s human.”

“So? If it was a demon doing these things we’d have got rid of him ages ago. Why does humanity give him license to do what he wants?”

“It doesn’t. But for humans we have laws and . . . and a justice system. We have rules.”

“Which this fucker has bloody well ignored.”

“I know.” Xander conked his head affectionately against Spike’s. “And it’s not fair, okay? I mean, I’ve been all shoot first and ask questions later when it comes to demons, and maybe some of them weren’t so bad. I met a lot of harmless types at the Sanctuary. Demons I wouldn’t mind having as my neighbors, my friends even. And then there have been all my demon lovers, some of whom haven’t even wanted to eat me.”

“It isn’t fair, you’re right. So let’s sort this one pesky human.”

“No. Can’t. It’s just . . . It’s the line I’ve drawn, okay? Maybe it’s not all that logical, but it’s there. ’Cause if I decide this guy needs killing, maybe I’ll start thinking that about a lot of people. There are a lot of evil humans, Spike.”

“Don’t have to tell me that.”

“So I decide I’m judge, jury, and executioner. And today it’s apocalypse-planning guy I waste, but maybe tomorrow it’s the lady who’s texting in the movie theater, or that jerk who cut me off in traffic. I can’t let myself go there. And I can’t let you go there either.”

“You’re my keeper now? My bleeding conscience?”

“Nope. I’m . . . I’m the man who loves you.”

Spike had no good answer to that. And the reality was that he didn’t disagree with Xander. Once you began playing judge perhaps the temptation to continue would be too great. You could become more self-righteous than Angel. You could begin to justify any means in view of your oh-so-honorable ends. Spike echoed Xander’s sigh.

Caron had climbed up on his knees and was looking solemnly at them both. “I don’t understand,” he announced. “Why does this man want to hurt you?” Despite his size, he had the knack of looking like a lost child, a look which never failed to tug at Spike’s sodding heartstrings. But it was Xander who reached up and ruffled Caron’s long hair.

“I don’t know if I can explain it myself, buddy. There’s . . . there’s just bad people in the world. People who don’t care what the fuck happens to anyone else as long as they get theirs.”

“But what does il ministro want? He didn’t ask you for anything, did he? Wouldn’t it have been easier if he had just asked?”

“I’m guessing he wants something he knows we won’t give him,” Xander replied with a shrug.

“But . . . but _why_?”

Spike only half-listened as Xander tried to explain greed and cruelty to an angel. Spike could have explained it better himself—he knew those emotions firsthand, in a way his boy never would. It was all about power, he could have told Caron. All about someone who felt very small and weak deep inside and had to terrorize others to prove he was big and strong. Spike could have gone on at length about how it wasn’t the demon that made a vampire dangerous, but the man. The man who had been bullied or ignored by his father, who had been spurned or ridiculed by his peers. The demon provided fangs and strength and a taste for blood, but it was the man who truly supplied the impulse for viciousness and brutality.

But Spike didn’t say any of these things, not only because he didn’t want to taint their angel even further, but also because he didn’t want Xander to hear them. He didn’t want Xander to judge him, to realize that before he had died, William had never been half the man that Xander was.

So instead Spike mulled over the puzzle that Caron had raised: what did da Ponte want from him? Couldn’t be money—Spike hadn’t any. He was a kept vamp, living off Xander’s expense account from the Council. Couldn’t be material goods in general. So . . . something intangible then. Spike had no influence over anyone that da Ponte would value. Perhaps the old man wanted more muscle, and Spike would make a powerful weapon, but da Ponte had to realize that Spike would never fight for him—and attacks, ambushes, and arson were hardly likely to win Spike over. Besides, the pet Ulorar seemed to be doing a good enough job on da Ponte’s behalf already.

Perhaps what da Ponte wanted from Spike was related to what he had been seeking from Signor Ricciutelli. But Ricciutelli was an expert on demon physiology, and while Spike could distinguish most species from one another, his knowledge of their workings was mostly confined to good ways to kill them. And that didn’t appear to be what il ministro was about either.

With a soft groan, Spike buried his face in his hands and massaged his temples.

“Hey,” Xander said softly, putting an arm around Spike’s shoulders. “I’m sorry I’ve been bitching. It’s not your fault.”

Caron scooted a little closer and, just as he had with Signora Bennu, bent his head onto Spike’s lap. It was difficult to be entirely miserable with a lover’s warm body pulling him close and an angel’s soft hair fanning out over his knees. Spike sighed and couldn’t resist lowering his hands to play with Caron’s hair. Perhaps it was part of the angel’s thrall—the power to make people want to touch him, to soothe him in exchange for the comfort he offered. If so, Spike envied him that.

After a time Caron rose off the floor—probably it was hurting his knees—but he didn’t go far. In fact, he somehow managed to arrange the three of them on the couch so that his head was in Spike’s lap again and his feet were in Xander’s, and although nobody was especially happy, petting the angel was a calming activity for them all. Xander even dozed a bit, his head lolling and his mouth hanging open, and Spike stared at the telly, not noticing or caring what was on.

When dusk fell, they finally got up off the couch and stretched mightily. Caron padded to his room to get some clothing on, while Spike and Xander laced up their boots. Then, after Spike quickly downed a barely-warmed mug of blood, they left the flat.

They didn’t have a destination in mind. They rarely did. But their first stop was a bar where Xander ordered a sandwich. He was still munching on his prosciutto and mozzarella when they made their second stop, the pancake place. Caron had tried all the toppings by then, but Nutella remained his favorite. When he licked a bit of the chocolate goo from his lips, a fortyish woman squeaked in delight, which made her balding husband shoot dirty looks at everyone.

They entered the tourist-infested area near the Rialto and crossed the bridge. The market was long since closed up, of course, but the scents of fish and fruit lingered. Several boys about eight or nine years old were kicking a soccer ball to one another while their older brothers skulked nearby, smoking cigarettes and trying desperately to look cool. The biggest of the lot—a lumpy bloke who was attempting to grow a mustache—sneered at Caron and Xander, who were walking arm in arm. Spike flashed him just a hint of fang and was satisfied when the boy went very pale.

A few minutes later, they came to a block with some shops still open. Xander got a sudden grin on his face. “Hang on. You wait here,” he ordered Spike. Then he ducked into one of the ubiquitous glass jewelry shops. Spike wasn’t especially pleased to be out of arm’s reach of Xander, but he reckoned the situation was safe enough. And Xander was only inside a few minutes. When he came out he was clutching a paper bag and smiling from ear to ear. “Presents!” he announced.

“You got Spike a present! Can I see?” Caron was nearly bouncing up and down with excitement.

“Nope. Got both of you something.”

Caron’s eyes grew so round Spike feared the angel was going to keel over with the shock of it. But Xander laughed and took Caron by the arm, and he led them all to a nearby campo that sported an ugly green statue of some bloke with a sword, a church with fliers advertising a concert, and two sidewalk cafes. They sat at a table at the nearer of the cafes. Spike ordered wine and Xander asked the waiter for a beer, but Caron was too keyed up to decide on anything, so Xander had to order his Coke for him.

“What is it?” Caron demanded breathlessly as soon as the waiter was gone. “What did you get us?”

Xander looked at his bag a little doubtfully. “Now I’m not sure if this is gonna live up to the build-up. It’s not that big a deal.”

“But it is! Because it will be a surprise and it’s from you and I’ve never had a real present before. Well, Signora Bennu gave me a feather and that was nice of her. But this is from you!”

“C’mon, whelp. Stop torturing the angel and hand it over.” In truth, Spike was nearly as excited as Caron, because although he had been given gifts before, they had been few and far between, and the last one had been ages ago. Dru had occasionally presented him with a teapot full of plucked eyeballs or a cigar box stuffed full of broken doll bits, and he’d always thanked her nicely because his barmy sire meant well. But the last true gift that he’d cherished he had received while he was alive: a gold  hunter-case pocket watch with a stem wind movement and his initials engraved gracefully on the cover. His mother had given it to him for his birthday and he had cherished it. It had been in his pocket the night he died but he had destroyed it in a fit of rage and grief after he had dusted his mother.

Xander smiled gently, as if he could read Spike’s gloomy thoughts, and reached into the bag. He pulled out two small items wrapped in tissue paper and, after peering at them for a moment, handed one to Spike and one to Caron. Caron’s was a little larger. Caron grabbed his and looked at Spike impatiently.

“You first, mate,” Spike chuckled.

Caron tore the paper away and said, “Ohh!” Xander had given him a necklace. The chain was gold and the pendant was a stylized wing of transparent smoke-colored glass inlaid with tiny golden flecks. Caron cradled it in his palm as if it were infinitely precious. “This is really for me?” he whispered.

Xander was blushing. “Yeah. But if you don’t like it you can—oof!” Xander’s words were interrupted when Caron leaned over and gave him an enthusiastic and crushing hug.

The waiter showed up with their drinks and rolled his eyes while Caron squeezed. Spike was about to peel Caron away—Xander was looking a bit oxygen-starved—when the angel loosened his embrace and leaned back. “Thank you! Thank you, Xander. May I wear it?”

Caron held his hair up and out of the way while Xander clasped the chain around his neck. Caron was wearing a tight, silky t-shirt in pale green that evening, and the pendant hung nicely on his chest.

“Thank you,” Caron said again, rubbing gently at the glass wing with his thumb, as if to check that the necklace was real. Then he turned to look at Spike. “Now you.”

It was stupid, but Spike’s fingers actually trembled a bit as he opened the paper. He kept his head tucked carefully down, unable to meet his lover’s bright gaze. The paper seemed to be folded in a fiendishly difficult manner, but finally Spike was able to unwrap it.

His gift was a necklace as well, although it bore a silver chain. And the pendant was a devil of red-black glass. The tiny demon had a pair of horns, a knowing grin, a curled tail, and, between his goat-like legs, a small but definite erection. The figure was finely made, Spike saw, no doubt the work of some glass master and not a messy cheap thing sold to impecunious foreigners.

“It’s . . . um, a devil,” Xander pointed out unnecessarily.

“I see that.”

“I can . . . Look, I’ll return it, okay? I’ll—”

“You will not.” Spike fought to keep his voice even and his hands steady as he clasped the necklace around his neck. He looked over at Xander, who appeared slightly terrified. “Thought you weren’t a romantic, love.”

Xander let out a long, relieved sigh as he realized that Spike liked his gift. “Told you. You make me mushy.”

Like a pair of sodding teenagers, Spike and Xander held hands as they sipped at their drinks. Even the waiter lightened his scowl a few notches at the sight of them. And when their drinks were gone, they sat for a time, Spike and Xander telling Caron some tales from Sunnydale. Eventually they stood and then wandered for a while. The streets gradually emptied and the restaurants and bars closed for the night. Only a few of the windows they passed were lit, and Spike imagined the city’s human residents all tucked into bed, their heads filled only with ordinary worries like paying the rent and getting laid and making their children mind. 

They turned down one of the streets that was so narrow they had to walk single file. Caron took the lead with Xander in the rear and Spike in the middle. Spike could feel his new jewelry hanging on him, a miniscule but significant weight. He wanted to get something for Xander in return, something that would let his boy know that he was loved and treasured. But Spike couldn’t think of what he might buy and, in any case, he had no money of his own. Then it occurred to him. A poem. Yeah, it was a poncy thing to do and the poem would no doubt be horrible, but it would be his to give, something unique and just for Xander. Xander had asked him for one, hadn’t he? And Spike was fairly certain his boy hadn’t been taking the piss.

Spike walked along, thinking of rhyme schemes and patterns. Perhaps Xander was more a free verse type of bloke than a sonnet sort. Or perhaps Spike could write an epic about Xander’s adventures. _Xaniad_. Spike could begin it with a scene in which the fearful but brave boy is offered to the terrifying vampire by the pillock with a soul. Or perhaps an epyllion was more in order, a longish elegy to his boy’s considerable skill in bed. Oh! He could write something in Alexandrine meter! Yes, that would be good, although he’d no doubt have to explain the suitability of that particular meter to his boy.

Pleased with his decision, Spike turned around to flash a smile at Xander.

But Xander was gone.

[Chapter Twenty Five](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/293372.html)   


  



	26. Chapter 26

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 25 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h6bgp/)  
---  
  
  
  


 

 ** Chapter Twenty Five **

Xander struggled in his bonds and tried to scream. But he was chained tightly—hogtied as neatly as a prize pig—and the gag in his mouth and cloth bag over his head meant he could barely drag in enough air to breathe, let alone yell.

It had all happened so fast.

He was walking down the dark and narrow street, watching Spike move in front of him. He could tell Spike was lost in thought and Xander wondered about what. Something good, he hoped. All evening—ever since Spike had opened his gift from Xander—the vampire’s hand had kept straying to his neck to touch the little glass devil, and his eyes kept getting that soft and misty look that showed Spike was forgetting he was the big bad. The gift had been a whim, something Xander had spied through the shop window, and Caron’s glass wing hadn’t been planned either. But both items had seemed so perfect, and both recipients so pleased. Xander vowed to find more ways to bring that look to his lover’s face, a look that said Spike had discovered that someone cherished him.

It was a warm night and Spike hadn’t worn his duster, so Xander’s rear guard position also gave him a really nice rear view, with Spike’s ass nicely packaged in tight denim. Fine, they might have had sex several times already that day, but those nicely rounded jeans were awfully tempting, and Xander was thinking of a few creative things they could do once those jeans were off. Maybe he’d take Spike up on that spanking offer—giving or receiving, Xander wasn’t sure which; maybe some of each?—or maybe something else. Xander imagined removing his lover’s clothing and tying him spread-eagled to the bed, and then tormenting him with a slow, slow striptease. It had been a long time since the Fabulous Ladies’ Nightclub, but Xander still remembered a move or two. Or maybe Xander would tie Spike face down instead, and spread something tasty all over that smooth skin—Caron had a jar of Nutella hidden somewhere, Xander was sure of it—and lick it all off.  Xander licked his lips at the idea of it.

And then Xander was off on another fantasy, this one considerably more elaborate: it involved vampire-safe flood lamps and a couple tons of sand and a really big kiddie pool, but maybe Xander could pull it off someday. The Council had a big warehouse-type building they used for training new Slayers, and Xander could pull a few strings maybe. Yeah. That would be nice—a fake beach for two, only Xander would have to warn Spike that sex on the beach was not nearly as fun as it sounded, not enough fun to have a drink named after it, not if you weren’t very careful about where that sand went. Thanks to a particular mishap involving Anya, Xander knew this for a fact.

Okay. So maybe not a fake beach. Maybe . . . maybe they could go back to London and Spike could play tour guide, showing Xander his old lifetime haunts. Xander was fairly certain Spike would like doing that. And then Xander could finagle permission from Giles to use his place in Bath, and Spike and Xander could spend a peaceful weekend there, a weekend in which clothing would be very optional and they could stockpile some DVDs and—

Something—make that some _things_ —grabbed him. Big and strong, and they were covering his mouth and dragging him away, all without making a sound. Xander was terrified, and he didn’t know whether the attackers had nabbed Spike and Caron too. And he was furious, because a guy should be able to have a nice walk with his boyfriend and daydream about sex without getting conked on the head, trussed up, and hauled away. Something did conk him on the head, hard enough to make the world go gray and his knees give out. He struggled to maintain consciousness, but before he could put up much of a struggle he was chained up and a rag was stuffed in his mouth and some kind of heavy cloth bag was jammed over his head. He was lifted and carried like a side of beef. But still he did what he could, wriggling and squirming. He thought maybe he managed to hit something sensitive with his knee, because one of the creatures that was carrying him staggered and almost dropped him, but then there was another stunning blow to Xander’s head and that was it.

***

He woke up with a searing headache. That was familiar, although it hadn’t happened in a while. He knew just what to do: stay very still, keep his eye—eyes now—closed, and try not to barf. All of which would have been an excellent plan, except he suddenly remembered that he’d been kidnapped by Christ knew who and taken to Christ knew where for Christ knew what reasons. He hadn’t been killed yet, though. That was a good sign. He hoped.

He still wasn’t quite ready to open his eyes, so he tested his other senses first. What he heard was the quiet lapping of water against stone, the slight creaking of old wooden floorboards, and maybe, somewhere far away, voices. What he smelled was mildew and rot and a little sewage. He smelled rusting metal and damp stone. And he smelled urine because at some point he seemed to have pissed himself. Lovely. Taste. He tasted cotton because a rag was still stuffed in his mouth and tied in place. His tongue and throat felt horribly dry and he had to fight hard not to gag. If he did vomit, he’d probably choke on it and die; and that was how rock stars died, not assistant demon fighters-slash-carpenters.

He noted that his muscles were cramped but he wasn’t hogtied anymore. His hands were cuffed behind his back, which meant his shoulders were aching; and as far as he could tell he was seated on cold stone, his back propped in a corner where two wooden walls met. His legs were stiff and sore and his ass was cold and a little numb, not to mention slightly bruised where he’d been sitting on his wallet. And of course there was his head, in which a particularly exciting rugby match was being held, complete with screaming spectators, and maybe even an irate football hooligan or two.

Eventually, because he didn’t have much choice, Xander inched open his eyes.

Mercifully, the place he was in was very dark, illuminated by only a single bulb that hung from an overhead wire. _Crappy wiring job_ , Xander thought automatically. _It’s a miracle this place hasn’t burned down_. But then he decided he had bigger issues than possible building code violations and he took a cautious look around.

He was in a cage. It probably wasn’t meant to be a cage originally. Aside from him it contained a few decaying boxes and some odds and ends of rusty machinery and a small pile of mildewy canvas cloths. A storage area, probably, but two walls were wood and the other two were heavy metal grids, one with a door that was padlocked shut. The floor was stone, and as Xander peered past the metal mesh and into the gloom, he saw a small boat rocking gently, and realized he was in one of the boat garages that some Venetian houses had at water level. A large wooden door led outside, but it was closed and, of course, on the other side of the cage. At least Xander was relieved that he hadn’t been taken out of the city.

There was no sign of Spike or Caron, or anyone else for that matter.

Xander struggled to his feet with great difficulty, and once he was upright his legs felt rubbery and the ground swayed underneath him, as if he were on board a ship during a storm. He staggered the ten feet or so across the cage and used all his weight and what little strength he had to ram his shoulder into the cage door. The door didn’t budge, but Xander ended up sprawled on his ass with his shoulder screaming almost as loud as his head.

Fine. He’d try something else. He looked around to see if there was anything he could use to loosen his bonds or pick the padlock, but the boxes proved to contain nothing but stacks of moldy paper, and none of the pieces of machinery within his reach would do him any good. His boots were gone, along with the knife he kept hidden in them.  He tried to break the cuffs against the metal walls, but there was no give either way. And he tried to loosen the cloth around his mouth by rubbing against the wooden walls, but the gag was tied tightly and all he got for his troubles were splinters in his cheek.

He finally collapsed back into his corner and resolved to save what little energy he had. He closed his eyes again and leaned his poor head against the wall. If they hadn’t killed him yet they probably wanted him alive for some reason. Now he just had to wait and see what that reason was.

***

The sound of heavy footsteps woke him up, but his eyes were gummy and his head was swimming, so when a group of somethings appeared in front of the cage he could barely make them out. They weren’t human, but they weren’t Ulorar either. They were maybe a foot shorter than he was but built like small boulders. They seemed to be covered in grayish fur but were wearing some kind of leather and chain mail getup, like escapees from a sci-fi con. They had a lot of eyes and extra arms, which made Xander think of giant spiders. He shuddered.

As one of the creatures unlocked the door—with some difficulty, since they were missing opposable thumbs—Xander used the walls behind him as support and rose slowly to his feet. He might not be in any shape to fight but he wasn’t just going to sit there in his own dried piss.

Christ, he was so parched, and it was maddening to see the water lapping at the edges of the boat, to see droplets of moisture oozing down the walls, and to be unable to drink any of it.

Finally the demon got the door open and they all surged into the little cage. Xander got a few ineffectual kicks in before they had him hogtied again and hoisted him onto their shoulders. He got a dizzying and incomplete view of his surroundings as they carried him out of the cage, across the floor and around a corner, and then up a flight of wide stone stairs that looked as if they were about a million years old. They went up and up, twisting and turning, until they finally paused in front of a broad wooden door. One of the demons opened it and Xander was hauled through, then dumped unceremoniously to the floor. He rolled onto his side for a better view.

He was in a very large room with a soaring ceiling and ugly old paintings on the walls. It reminded him of some of the chambers in the Doge’s palace, which he and Caron had toured a while back. It was the sort of room that was intended to impress you with the importance of its owner. And its owner was, apparently, il ministro dei demoni, who was standing a few feet away, looking down at Xander with distaste.

Da Ponte said something to the demons, and a couple of them managed to unfasten Xander’s bonds and put new ones on, so his ankles were hobbled by a short chain. The manacles at his wrists were unlocked and Xander screamed into the gag when his hands were shoved forward. It felt like his arms were being torn out of the sockets. The demons cuffed his wrists tightly in front of him.

Xander groaned and rose to his knees. He was a little wobbly, but semi-upright, at least.

Da Ponte peered at him with his bulbous eyes. “I will have the gag removed, but if you begin to make a fuss, I will replace it. Do you understand?”

Xander nodded. The movement of his head brought a wave of nausea.

Il ministro barked more orders at his flunkies and one of them fumbled with the cloth around Xander’s mouth. Its fingers were chitinous, more like crab pincers than human digits, and Xander had to fight his revulsion at having those things so close to his face. But soon the cloth was unfastened and Xander retched a little as the rag was pulled out of his mouth.

“What do—” he croaked, then coughed harshly. “Water.”

With an impatient roll of his eyes, da Ponte yelled at one of the demons. Everyone waited while the demon lumbered away. It returned a few moments later with a paper cup, which it handed to Xander. The water was tepid and metallic, and it was the most wonderful thing Xander had ever tasted. There wasn’t very much of it but that was probably just as well, because thirsty as he was, he realized that too much at once and he’d only puke it up.

“What do you want?” he was able to ask, although he still sounded and felt like someone had taken 30-grit sandpaper to his throat.

“Your master, of course.”

“Spike’s not—” Xander stopped himself. No reason to argue over semantics. Besides, he had to hide a little thrill of happiness over the revelation that they hadn’t caught Spike. “Why do you want him?”

“It is no concern of yours.”

“Kind of is, seeing as I’m the bondage boy du jour.”

Da Ponte looked peeved and tugged a cell phone out of his too-tight suit jacket. He held it in front of him. “You will ring your master and arrange a meeting with me.”

“My master hasn’t quite entered the twenty-first century when it comes to technology. He doesn’t have a phone, except mine which is . . .” He reached into his front pocket and discovered that his phone was gone. “. . . pilfered by you guys.”

“Surely you must have some way of communicating with him.”

“Yeah. It’s called a mouth. Tell you what—you let me go and I’ll toddle on home and let him know you want to hook up.”

One of the demons cuffed Xander hard enough to knock him over. Xander shook his head and doggedly got back up on his knees. “Asshole,” he said to the demon. “I’ve eaten bugs tougher than you.”

The demon looked as if it intended to hit him again, but da Ponte put up a hand to stop it. “Enough of this nonsense. You will find a way to contact your master or you will die.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that even if you two do have this little tete-a-tete, you’re gonna let me go scot-free? C’mon. It’s not like I’ve never been kidnapped or threatened with death before, bud. I know how it works.”

“You are a very tiresome man. Very well. I shall find a way to get a message to your master myself. But I will need— Wait.” Da Ponte cocked his head curiously. “Wasn’t there something wrong with your eye?”

“It got better,” Xander responded.

Il ministro looked slightly dubious, but then shrugged. “I will need a method to convince your master of the sincerity of my intentions.”

Xander didn’t like the sound of that, but he tried not to show his fear. “Look, if you think Spike is gonna roll over and play fetch for you just because you’ve nabbed me, think again. Spike doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do.”

Another shrug. “We shall see.” Then da Ponte said something to the demons.

Two of the little monsters waddled over and hauled Xander to his feet by his biceps. He tried to hit at them, but couldn’t do much with the cuffs on. They dragged him across the room to a wooden chair. Xander struggled harder when he saw the chair, because it had shackles built into the arms, and legs. But the demons had no problem plopping him into the seat. He got in one and a half good kicks before they’d replaced the hobbles with the ankle shackles, and he almost poked out a demon’s eye before they locked his wrists down, too. But then he was good and caught, and he couldn’t do much of anything when da Ponte approached brandishing a really big knife.

“Do you like my chair?” asked il ministro. “It is quite old, you know. Silvio D’Este Il Rosso—one of the Doge’s inquisitors, si?—used it himself. I imagine several illustrious criminals have sat right where you are now.”

“Lucky me.” Xander twisted and squirmed, testing his bonds, but they didn’t give.

“And this knife.” Da Ponte held it up so that Xander could better admire the dark metal blade, the handle that was well-worn but inset with red jewels. “This knife has been used by my forebears for over five hundred years.”

“Maybe it’s time to invest in some new cutlery.”

Da Ponte ignored him, instead giving more orders to his underlings. One of the demons stepped forward and used its claw things to pin the fingers of Xander’s right hand to the chair arm. Xander’s nausea returned with a vengeance as he realized what was about to happen. “Hey!” he shouted. “Listen, you motherfucker. Do you have any idea what Spike is gonna do to you? I promise you, he’s gonna make death seem like the best idea ever. He’s gonna—”

One of the demons hit him in the mouth. Xander’s sore head thudded back against the chair and his mouth filled with his own blood. Da Ponte stepped forward. Xander spat his mouthful of blood onto the man, who didn’t even flinch. 

With a seemingly practiced flick of his wrist, il ministro amputated Xander’s right thumb.

It didn’t hurt as much as losing an eye. In fact, the blade was sharp enough and da Ponte’s movements sure enough that for a few moments it didn’t hurt at all; so Xander could watch with a strange feeling of detachment as blood spurted from the stump and as da Ponte grinned in a ghastly sort of way and dropped the severed digit into a little jewelry box, which he slipped into his pocket. In fact, it was only when da Ponte applied some kind of stinging ointment to the wound that the pain began. By then it was too late to scream.

Xander only moaned deeply as the bleeding became sluggish and then stopped, and as il ministro wrapped a bandage around his hand.

And then, mercifully, everything went fuzzy and gray.

*** 

They didn’t bother with the gag this time. Maybe they knew he was too weak to manage much of a shout. They simply shoved him back in his cell and locked the door. Somewhere along the way they’d put him back in handcuffs and hobbles. He was slightly relieved to notice that a bucket had appeared in the cage, presumably to serve as makeshift toilet, and that there was a big plastic bottle of water. No food, though. He wasn’t anywhere near hungry now, but his stomach was empty, and he knew eating something would have helped him gain a little strength.

He slumped back down in his corner and tried to ignore the maddening throb of his hand. He told himself that Spike would stage a miraculous rescue and get him the fuck out of there, that Spike would do so without getting caught himself and before Xander ended up minus any more body parts. And he told himself that there was plenty of demand for carpenters who were missing a thumb on their good hand.

He didn’t believe a word of it, but he kept on telling himself anyway.

[Chapter Twenty Six](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/293491.html)   


  



	27. Chapter 27

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 26 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h7frc/)  
---  
  
  
  


 

 ** Chapter Twenty Six **

Spike was frantic. For a brief moment he had hoped that Xander had wandered off again and gotten lost, just like the night he had found Caron, but Spike knew better. Xander knew his way around Venice pretty well by now and, in any case, was also aware of the importance of sticking close. Spike ran around like an insane bloodhound, trying to catch Xander’s scent, but the only trail he could find was the one that led back to the café where they had been sitting. Caron added his considerable olfactory talents to the hunt, but with no better results.

“Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!” Spike said, bashing his head against the nearest wall.

Caron caught him by the shoulders and pulled him away. “Stop! You’re hurting yourself!”

“Lost him. He was right _there_ and I was meant to keep him safe and I’ve bloody lost him,” Spike wailed.

“Then we’ll find him.”

Caron seemed so certain that Spike took a few deep breaths and willed himself to be calm. Hysteria wasn’t going to help Xander. “Right then. We’ll go to the bastard’s office.”

He took off running at top speed, and Caron with his long legs wasn’t far behind. When they got to the green door of de Ponte’s office, Spike didn’t bother with niceties like ringing a bell—he simply rammed his shoulder into it. But the door didn’t give; no doubt it had been demon-proofed over the years. Spike's frenzy returned and he banged into the unyielding wood again and again, until Caron caught his arm and stopped him. Just then the door opened, and there stood da Ponte’s half-Brachen secretary, or whatever she was. She frowned at Spike disapprovingly.

“Where is he?” Spike roared, and only Caron’s restraining arms kept him from tearing the bitch to pieces.

She didn’t even blink. “It is long past business hours.”

“I’ll bloody shove your business hours into your fucking intestines! Let me see da Ponte!”

“Il ministro has been gone for hours,” she answered coolly.

Spike broke free of Caron and rushed for the door. He didn’t bother with the woman, but simply barged inside and ran up the stairs, Caron in hot pursuit. But as the woman had said, there was no sign of da Ponte in his office—or anywhere else for that matter. And despite Spike’s frenzied opening of every door and cupboard he could find, there was no hint of Xander, nor of his scent. Regretfully, Spike reached the conclusion that his boy was not there.

He ran headlong down the stairs and stood in the woman’s face. “Where does the bastard live?” he demanded.

“I do not know.”

He grabbed for her throat but she stepped back neatly, just out of reach, and again Caron held him back. “WHERE?” Spike bellowed. His rage and panic were so great he could barely speak, and he realized only dimly that he had vamped out.

But she only shrugged. “I do not know. You may yell all you wish, signor, but that will not change the truth.”

Spike believed her. But he was going to kill her anyway, just because he had to kill _something_ and this bitch had the temerity to work for the fucker who had stolen his love. But Caron hauled him from the dusty little vestibule and out onto the street, where the flowers bloomed gaily in window boxes and the world didn’t care that Spike was being destroyed.

“We’ll find him,” Caron said again, holding Spike’s shoulders tightly.

“How? How will we bloody find him?”

The angel remained calm, although lines of tension had appeared around his eyes. “Il ministro must have taken him as a way to get you, right? So he’ll contact you. Try to talk to you, maybe.”

While Spike’s anger didn’t fade, Caron’s words were enough to cause the unreasoning terror to subside a bit. The angel was right—if da Ponte wanted Spike for some reason, then he had a good incentive to keep Xander alive, to use him as a bargaining chip. For a time, anyway.

Spike inhaled and exhaled several times, long and deep, and he reshifted the planes of his face to human form. “Let’s go back to the flat and strategize,” he said. It would be sunrise soon anyhow, and he’d be useless.

Caron nodded gravely. He took Spike’s hand in his and held it tightly, and they didn’t once break contact as they made their lonely, grim way home.

The flat was empty and echoing. Spike heated some blood—he’d need to remain strong now—and tried to keep his mind empty as he drank it. He rinsed the cup and set it into the sink, pretending he didn’t see the cup there from Xander’s morning coffee. As he did all this, Caron waited, fidgeting slightly.

“Right then,” Spike said finally. He leaned up against the kitchen cupboards. “Da Ponte might mean to contact me, but I don’t want to wait. Christ knows what he’s doing—” He broke off, not wanting to pursue that line of thought any further. “So we need a way to find the bastard. I can ask Paolo, Signora Bennu, Signor Ricciutelli—perhaps one of them knows where il ministro lives, or can find out. And I can ring the Scoobies— Fuck!”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know their phone numbers. Xander has them in his phone, hasn’t he? Perhaps email, but I don’t know his bloody password. I have no way to contact any of them unless I go there in person.”

Caron gnawed at his lip. “I can stay here while you go. In case someone—”

“No. I won’t abandon him here.”

“That’s not abandonment, Spike, it’s just—”

“No!” Spike shook his head forcefully. Some part of him knew that Caron was right, but Spike just couldn’t leave the city without Xander. He’d sooner chop off one of his own limbs. He considered sending Caron instead, but immediately dismissed the notion. The angel had only just become accustomed to moving about in Venice—and even that had been with at least one of them at his side at all times. Sussing out transport to London would be far beyond him. Heathrow would give him a conniption and he’d never make his way across town to HQ. He’d never even seen an automobile—nothing motorized at all except boats. Plus there was his troubling lack of passport or other official papers and—well, just no. Caron could not play messenger.

“Perhaps Xander’s mates will become worried when they can’t reach him,” Spike said, although without much conviction. “In the meantime, I’ll keep searching. And waiting for any word from il ministro.”

With that unsatisfying conclusion, Spike made his way to his bedroom. He removed his clothing and crawled into the much-too-barren bed. He was relieved when Caron appeared a moment later, also divested of his kit, and climbed right in beside him. And they held each other, wordlessly, chastely, as if the world night swallow them up if they let go. Neither of them slept.

***

By four in the afternoon, Spike was pacing the flat like a ravenous tiger. He felt so bloody useless. He cursed himself, he cursed vampires’ sunlight weakness in general. And even though he knew it made little sense, he cursed Buffy and Angel for stealing the Gem of Amara and destroying the thing.

After Caron’s few abortive attempts at comforting him ended with Spike growling and snarling, the angel withdrew to the sofa, where he chewed his lip bloody and watched Spike anxiously. “I could go find Paolo,” Caron offered as Spike marched past him for the hundredth time. “Or the signora.”

“No. I don’t want you leaving here without me. What if they snatched you as well?”

So as soon as the sun had set—truthfully, a bit earlier in fact, so that Spike still smoked a bit—they left the flat in search of help. Paolo was at his usual spot near San Marco and looked alarmed as they approached. His distress only increased as Spike gave him a brief synopsis of recent events. “I am so sorry!” he said. “This is terrible! But I do not know where il ministro might be. I will ask around, though. I will send word to your home if I learn anything.”

“Cheers, mate,” said Spike.

Signor Ricciutelli didn’t know anything either, and when they showed up at Signora Bennu’s palace the place was as cold and empty as if it hadn’t been lived in for years. That left them at a dead-end, no more knowledgeable about Xander’s whereabouts than they had been the previous night. Spike narrowly avoided having another tantrum. In the end, they returned to the ministry, but no amount of ringing and pounding would persuade the door to open, and in the end Caron had to drag Spike away because a neighbor stuck his head out a window and threatened to call the police.

They trudged back in the direction of their flat, weary and dispirited. Small images kept playing in Spike’s head, little moving pictures of what Xander could be going through that very minute. Unfortunately, Spike had a very long and broad experience from which to conjure mental pictures of torture and pain. Even if da Ponte hadn’t touched a hair on Xander’s head, Spike knew his boy would be frightened. Would Xander realize that Spike was desperately searching for him? Would he trust Spike to rescue him? Yeah, they had traded all the girlish endearments, but would Xander truly know, deep in his heart, that Spike would give anything in his power to ensure Xander’s safety? Expecting someone to have faith in a demon—now _that_ was irony.

They had entered the campo on which their flat was located when a child appeared from a side alley. No, not a child, Spike realized at once. It was much too late for children to be out unattended. Besides, as the figure came closer—very cautiously—Spike caught a whiff and knew it was a demon. He didn’t recognize the species, but it was tiny and wizened, its head bald as an egg and its features pointed, like those children who had that horrible disease that turned them into old men and women by the time they reached kindergarten. But its skin was mottled as well, sort of a gray-green like a mossy stone, and its eyes were huge and as luminous yellow as a traffic light.

“Please!” it squeaked when it was just out of leaping distance. It had an Australian accent. “It’s not my fault. He threatened my family, you see, and he said I only had to bring it to you—”

“Bring me what?” demanded Spike. He wanted to jump on the little demon and wring information from its scrawny neck, but restrained himself. Perhaps a bit of patience would work better for a change.

“This.” From somewhere in the folds of its shapeless clothing, the creature produced a parcel about the size of a cigar box. “He said I was to give it to you personally. He said if I didn’t he’d—”

“Don’t want to hear it. Hand it over.”

The demon looked relieved. It set the box onto the stones in front of its feet and then scrambled several paces backwards. “There you go. I gave it to you, just like he said. I’m sorry! My husband . . . we’re expecting a litter you see, very soon, and my husband’s condition is delicate, and—”

“Where is da Ponte?” Spike interrupted.

“I don’t know! Please! He sent some of his messengers to me. To my house, which means he knows where we live. Well, of course he knows, because we registered with the ministry just as we were told to. Always been law-abiding, we have, and wouldn’t harm a fly. We wouldn’t even—”

Spike stepped forward and scooped up the parcel. The demon scuttered even farther away, until it was nearly outside the campo. “Go,” ordered Spike. “Take your husband and your litter and everyone else and get out of Venice.”

“Yes! Of course! Of course!” The creature squeaked once more and skittered into the darkness and around a corner, disappearing into the maze of Venice’s streets.

Spike shook the package, which was wrapped in plain brown paper. Nothing shifted. It wasn’t heavy. Then he sniffed at it and immediately felt his hackles rise. It smelled of Xander—and of Xander’s blood. With a savage cry, Spike tore off the paper, revealing an ordinary cardboard box. Inside the box was a white envelope with “William the Bloody” written in ornate script on the front. There was also a smaller box of the sort jewelry came in. Spike tucked the envelope under his arm, dropped the bigger box, and, with a shuddering breath, opened the small box.

Inside was a severed thumb.

“Oh no,” Spike said in a hoarse whisper and dropped to his knees, still cradling the little box. He would have recognized the digit even if it didn’t carry Xander’s scent. There was a scar along the pad of it, bisecting the fingerprint. Xander had told him the story of that scar just a few days earlier, when Spike had been systematically kissing every inch of his boy and had noticed the blemish. Nothing supernatural, Xander had said. Just a clumsy moment with a pocketknife when he was a child. “Oh no.”

Caron’s face had paled—he’d caught Xander’s smell as well. He knelt beside Spike on the hard pavement and slung his long arm over Spike’s shoulders. “He’s still alive. They wouldn’t have sent that if he was dead.”

“Was alive. But now? And he’s maimed . . .” Spike’s voice broke and his hands shook. 

Gently but firmly, Caron took the little box away. He replaced the lid and slipped the whole thing into Spike’s front duster pocket. “What’s in the envelope?”

At least the envelope was too thin to hold any body parts, Spike reflected hopelessly. He slit the flap open and pulled out a sheet of thick, grayish paper. The message inside was succinct:

_You will meet my employees tomorrow evening at 19:00 in the center of Campo Santi Giovanni e Paolo. You will permit yourself to be taken into custody without struggle. I trust you understand the consequences that will result if you do not follow these instructions._

Caron must have read over Spike’s shoulder, because he looked at Spike, wide-eyed. “What will you do?”

Spike could feel the tiny box in his pocket, heavy as a cannon ball. Heavier than a guilty soul. “Going to do what the bastard says.”

***

The Basilica di San Giovanni e Paolo was a red-brick Gothic monster that dominated the campo. Nearby, groups of noisy tourists were seated about little tables, slurping at overpriced gelato and nattering away in a dozen languages. None of them seemed especially put off by the angrily pacing man in their midst. Spike expected he could have flashed his fangs and cleared the place, but he didn’t have the energy to waste; he was too busy being consumed with worry. Perhaps Caron would have been a calming influence, but Spike had insisted that the angel remain in their flat. Someone needed to stay in case the other Scoobies ever showed up, and Spike didn’t want to drag Caron into what was sure to be a disaster.

The church bells rang. Just as the seventh bell was fading, four large men approached Spike. Again, not really men—demons of some sort he didn’t recognize—but human enough to pass in the gathering darkness. Each of them towered over him and was probably twice his weight, and they all had grim, stonelike faces. “Come,” one of them ordered and, like a blasted dog, Spike did.

They surrounded him, blocking nearly all his view as they wound through the streets. When they reached a very narrow street that was otherwise deserted, one of them grabbed Spike’s wrists and wrenched them backwards.

“Oi!” Spike yelled and tried to free himself.

But the demon’s grip was like steel. “Be still,” it rumbled. As Spike continued to squirm, one of them shackled his arms behind him and then another very quickly shoved a heavy cloth bag over his head. Spike began to resist in earnest, kicking and twisting, but even unfettered he'd probably not have been a match for even one of them. Blinded and bound as he was, surrounded by four of them, it was no contest. He soon gave in, determined to save his strength for later.

He stumbled along as his captors pushed and prodded. He could smell very little except the musty bag, and even sounds were muffled. He soon lost all sense of where he was or where he was going, and for all he knew they were leading him in circles just to confuse him. In any case, perhaps a half hour had passed before they paused and he heard indistinct voices. Then he was being pushed up a steep set of stairs.

Spike reckoned they climbed two flights before veering off. He was shoved roughly down into a chair. “Wait,” said one of the demons. When Spike tried to stand, a huge hand pinned him in place.

Da Ponte kept him there a good long time, letting Spike stew in his juices. Spike knew the game—it was a power trip and it got the target suitably anxious besides—but knowing didn’t make it any better. Spike simply sat there, trying not to imagine the state his boy must be in and instead remembering some of Angelus’s more creative atrocities, and how those might be applied to il ministro.

By the time footsteps shuffled into the room and the bag was yanked off Spike’s head, he was quietly furious.

“Where is he?” he demanded as soon as he saw da Ponte.

The froglike man sat behind a desk that was piled with papers and books and odd bits of metal and stone and plastic. His bug eyes popped out even more than usual as he smiled smugly. “I have had a great deal of difficulty in speaking with you, William.”

“It’s Spike, and where’s my boy?”

The man waved his hand dismissively, as if Xander was of no importance. “We are here to discuss matters of great consequence.”

“We’ll discuss nothing until I see Xander.”

Da Ponte rolled his eyes. “Very well. If you insist on being tiresome about it.” He turned and whispered something in Italian to one of the squat demons that flanked him, who then nodded and waddled off. Spike was left in the room with da Ponte and a small assortment of other creatures. He took a quick look about but saw nothing that seemed particularly helpful or relevant: just more dusty antique furniture and piles of clutter. Da Ponte must have had the world’s worst housekeeper.

Spike turned his head back to see that il ministro had poured himself a glass of dark red wine and was sipping at it in a satisfied way.

“’M going to tear your throat out,” Spike informed him conversationally. “But not for ages. You’ll be begging me to kill you by then.”

For some reason, his threats made da Ponte chuckle delightedly, so Spike glared silently instead.

Spike smelled Xander before he saw him. His boy smelled of urine and blood and damp and fear, and he smelled of sickness as well. Spike growled incoherently and tried—again unsuccessfully—to stand. A moment later the short demon appeared, this time carrying a still form. The demon dumped the body onto the floor, not at all gently.

“Xander!” Spike cried.

Xander groaned and rolled over so that he was facing Spike. He was filthy and his face had an unhealthy greenish tint to it. “Oh no,” he whispered hoarsely. “What did you do, Spike?”

“Came after you, didn’t I?”

Xander moaned again and shakily managed to sit up. His right hand was wound with what looked to be miles of dirty bandages. “Spike—” he began.

“God, love. I’m sorry. So sorry. I should never have—”

“Enough!” Da Ponte waddled over to stand between them. “This accomplishes nothing.”

Spike snarled at him. “You sick bastard. I may be a demon, but he’s a man, a good man, and you’ve no right to treat him this way.”

“He is nothing,” da Ponte sniffed. “A tool, and that is all. You are the one I require.”

“Require for what?”

Da Ponte smiled. “I need you to kill me.”

[Chapter Twenty Seven](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/293773.html)   


 

  



	28. Chapter 28

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 27 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h8zsc/)  
---  
  
  
  


**Chapter Twenty Seven**

The hand was the worst. It was one giant throb, the pain intensifying with every heartbeat. It had swollen so grotesquely that the skin felt ready to split, and he’d been unable to retie the bandages properly using his left hand. Not that the bandages were doing any good anyway—they were as filthy as the rest of him, and in any case he could feel the infection crawling slowly up his arm. He was sick with it too, one moment shivering desperately with cold, the next burning up. 

But the nausea—that might have been due to the concussion rather than the infection. It didn’t really matter which was the cause. He tried to get a little water into his stomach but kept retching it up. Even if they had given him food, he couldn’t have kept it down.

He was dizzy and weak, probably due to a combination of all the factors. He curled up in the driest corner of his little cell and tried not to think about Spike. Sometimes he hovered in and out of light fever dreams, fuzzy nightmares of the many horrors of his past. One moment he was watching Buffy fall and fall, another he was abandoning Anya at the altar, another he was staking Jesse or looking at Cordelia with her flat stomach impaled or crying in front of Willow’s scary black eyes. It was not very restful.

When he was lucid enough and the worries about Spike wouldn’t go away, Xander chanted to himself, or maybe to whatever deities might listen: “Don’t get caught, Spike. Don’t get caught.”

Xander had realized early on that Spike had no way to call London for help, and he cursed himself for not insisting that Spike get a cell phone. Or at least carry a list of emergency contacts, for Chrissake. So all Xander could do was hold out hope that his lover had traveled in person to England to fetch backup, but somehow Xander couldn’t force himself to believe that Spike would do anything of the sort.

Maybe Spike was already in da Ponte’s clutches and Xander would just be left to die slowly in his cage. It was a horrifying thought. Xander had faced death enough times already that he could almost be a little blasé about it, except he had a special fear of dying alone. No doubt it was related to his various abandonment issues, but that pithy little psychological insight didn’t help one bit.

So he was somewhat relieved, in a semi-conscious sort of way, when he heard heavy footsteps, and when the cage door squealed open. Someone growled some words at him, but Xander couldn’t even make out what language they were in so he didn’t respond. The demon kicked him half-heartedly in the shin, grunted, and scooped Xander into its arms. Then it carried him up the stairs—and every single step felt like his thumb were being chopped off again. He would have gnawed off his own arm if he had thought it would dull the pain.

But all that was forgotten when the demon dumped him onto the ground and Xander heard the one thing he most feared: Spike’s voice. 

Xander moaned and rolled over and there was his vampire, expression as furious as Xander had ever seen it. Spike’s arms were behind his back, no doubt in chains, and an especially enormous demon was pressing on Spike’s shoulders, restraining him from rising from his chair.

Xander wouldn’t have thought himself able, but he managed to sit up. He wanted to tell Spike he was sorry for getting his stupid self captured, that he loved Spike and didn’t give a fuck whether the cause was magical, that he’d been more content during their short time together—demon issues notwithstanding—than he could ever remember being. That Spike was a good man and should never forget it. But that bastard da Ponte interfered, standing between them and not letting them talk.

“I need you to kill me,” da Ponte informed Spike.

“I know this part,” Xander said in a raspy voice. “It’s the part where the bad guy tells the hero about his big evil plan.” He might have been slightly delirious.

“Shut up!” snapped il ministro. He kicked at Xander and only managed a weak tap with his foot, but it was enough to send Xander crashing back down to the floor. That was okay. The stone floor was nice and cool under his cheek.

Spike vamped out and there were several minutes of struggle and colorful swearing, but in the end the big demon called over a buddy to help, and the two of them kept Spike neatly pinned in place.

Da Ponte, meanwhile, had fetched a glass of wine and was sipping at it with an air of mixed irritation and boredom, like someone who’d been left too long in a doctor’s waiting room. When Spike finally subsided, still glaring and fang-faced, da Ponte smiled. “I am ill, you see.”

“You're a sick bugger, all right,” Spike replied with a snarl.

“It’s not fair, is it? Most of the species with whom I work live many decades longer than humans. A few such as yourself do not age at all. I work hard, and yet I get old and fat and ill.” He sighed melodramatically and placed his empty glass on a side table. “My doctors have no cure. But in the end, human medicine always fails us, does it not? So I turned to other sources, but they have been unable to assist me. Sadly, those who study the supernatural seem to have little interest in improving human health. A waste, truly.”

Da Ponte turned and waddled back behind his desk. He collapsed into the oversized chair with a loud huff of air and paused, as if speaking had taken too much effort. But then he seemed to get a second wind, because he continued. “My time is growing short. I have intensified my efforts to find a cure—and, I am afraid, I have made some rather unorthodox alliances as I went. Perhaps I have even ignored my ministerial duties. I had nearly despaired completely when you appeared.”

“I haven’t any miracle cure, berk,” said Spike.

“Oh, but you have! You have the _only_ cure for life, which is death. But not the sort of death that will mean rotting in a crypt on San Michele. No, I mean the sort of death _you_ are enjoying just now, with your . . . ,” he waved in Xander’s direction, “your deviant desires. In my case, of course, I will be able to continue my work with the ministry. Expand my work, in fact.”

Xander was too sick and exhausted and angry to follow his captor’s thread of thought. But Spike got it, because his yellow eyes widened. “You want me to turn you,” he said.

“Precisely!” Da Ponte grinned so widely Xander wondered, dazedly, if the top of his head would fall off. “It hadn’t occurred to me as a possibility until I met you. As I mentioned earlier, it has been a great many years since there has been a vampire in Venezia.”

“I won’t do it. I told you before—didn’t sire lightly when I was evil, and I don’t do it at all now.”

Da Ponte shrugged. “But exceptions can always be made, si? Given the right incentive.” He nodded his head at Xander.

Spike was visibly trying to keep himself calm. “Wouldn’t be you. Just a demon wearing your ugly body.”

“So _you_ say. But I will be dead soon in any event and I am willing to take my chances. Perhaps I will acquire a soul as well.”

“You can’t buy a soul at the bloody Billa, pillock! And once you rise you won’t want one anyway.”

Il ministro was not perturbed in the least. “Perhaps souls are overrated. It will be no concern of yours in any case. You will turn me and then our business together will be complete. Once I rise I will order my employees to release you and you will be free to leave. Your boy as well, if he still lives.”

Xander thought vaguely to himself that him still living much longer was unlikely. The infection was spreading slowly up his arm and into his shoulder and his dizziness was worse. One concussion over his limit, apparently. He felt as if he were floating slightly above the floor, which would have been okay except he also felt like his body was rocking. It was some kind of really awful amusement park ride and he just wanted to climb off.

“Won’t do it,” Spike said.

Xander tried to smile at him. “Good. Don’ let ’im bully you.” He hoped Spike understood him. His tongue didn’t seem to be working very well.

Spike gave him an anguished look. “Xan . . .”

“’S aright, Spike. Love you.”

Da Ponte made a _tsk_ sound. “Still tiresome. Very well. I will give you a little more time to consider my offer, William. If you refuse, your boy will most certainly die and I will destroy you as well. And then I shall simply have my employees find me another vampire somewhere else. Not as convenient or expedient, of course, but needs must.” He smiled. “Perhaps you are not as attached to your pet as I assumed. I will try more direct methods of persuasion.”

As Spike fought against the demons’ grip, da Ponte barked orders at his minions. One of the short, wide ones with too many arms heaved Xander over its shoulder and began to carry him away. Xander tried to call out to Spike as they left, but blackness swallowed him before he could manage a word.

***

Cold. Hot. Wet. His goddamn fucking hand _hurt_ and he was alone and he couldn’t help Spike. God, he couldn’t help Spike.

***

Maybe the demons carried him back upstairs again. Maybe he was hallucinating. Or maybe he was dead already and his ghost had floated up through the floorboards of da Ponte’s house. Whatever the back story, he seemed to be in a new room. A big one, mostly empty, with light shining sluggishly in through two big grimy windows and a lot of cobwebs festooning the ceiling.

Something made a noise, a sort of groan. At first Xander assumed he’d made the noise himself, but then he heard it again, this time with a slight metallic rattling. He gathered all his remaining energy and rolled his head sideways on the floor.

Spike. It was Spike who had made the sounds. He was hanging several inches over the floor, suspended from the ceiling by his wrists. He was shirtless and bloodied, with raw welts across his chest and small, blackened burns. One of his eyes was swollen completely shut and the other nearly so. His nose was broken. He looked worse than the time Glory had worked him over, and this time, even through the fog of fever, Xander could feel every bruise and cut as if they were his own.

“Spike,” he whispered.

“Sorry.” Spike’s voice was cracked and broken. “So sorry. Tried . . . Can’t . . .”

“Not your fault.”

“I’ll do it. Turn the bastard. Perhaps he’ll—”

“He won’t. You know that. And . . . Christ, he’s like this as a human. What would he be like as a vamp?”

Spike nodded resignedly. “I know. We had so little time together, you and I.”

“Good things never last and bad shit goes on and on. Irony.”

Spike tried to smile at him and Xander tried to smile back.

“Will Caron be okay?” asked Xander.

“Yeah. Expect so. Scoobies will find him eventually.”

That was a relief, at least. Xander pictured the reactions of the all the Slayers to the angel’s beautiful face and almost chuckled. Caron would be kept very busy. Maybe he’d even find that partner he deserved.

As Xander consoled himself with these thoughts, he tried to move a little more. Maybe he could crawl to Spike. He wouldn’t be able to stand up and try to release him, but they could at least touch a little. Once more. That would be nice. But the going was impossibly slow, the several feet between them like the Grand Canyon, and Xander still couldn’t quite touch Spike when the door to the room was flung open.

Da Ponte marched in, flanked by four huge demons. He looked weaker than Xander remembered. Maybe torturing vampires was exhausting work. But he was smug nonetheless. “You haven’t much time, William. Not for either of you. Look at your boy. I doubt he’ll last the day. You can smell the infection, I assume. Sepsis. Not a pleasant way to go.”

“Fucker,” Spike mumbled.

“I will give you one final opportunity to cooperate. If you refuse, you will watch your pet die. I may keep you around long enough to see me turned. Some of my employees have already left to find a replacement for you, you see. And then I will end you. Creatively, I think. Bathing you in holy water, perhaps?”

Xander scooted a few more inches across the floor, but everyone ignored him.

Everyone except Spike, who gave him a long look and sighed. “Fine,” he said.

“Fine what?”

“Unchain me and I’ll bloody do it.”

“No, Spike!” Xander cried, but da Ponte kicked him and cackled happily.

“Excellent!” Il ministro gave his minions some orders and two of them unlocked Spike’s chains. Spike fell to the ground with a thud—still not quite close enough to reach. After a moment, he climbed slowly and painfully to his feet. He stood there, weaving slightly.

“Get on with it! And I warn you—if you do not turn me properly, my employees have orders to ensure that you and your boy will pay the consequences.”

Spike nodded once in defeat. He stepped closer to da Ponte and his bones shifted, although even his demon face was battered and swollen.

Xander raised one wavering arm, wishing he could stop Spike.

Spike had to lean down a little to bite da Ponte’s neck. Il ministro shuddered with triumph as the fangs breached his skin, and Xander keened to himself, remembering how wonderful that bite had felt when he and Spike had been together in their safe and comfortable bed. Spike swallowed and swallowed, but his eyes were fixed on Xander as if he wanted Xander to understand some message, but Xander was too slow, too dazed to get it.

When da Ponte staggered and then fell, Spike knelt beside him. He tore savagely into his own wrist and held the bleeding thing to da Ponte’s pale lips. The man drank greedily and Spike bent down and bit him again.

It was over within minutes.

And then the big demons lumbered forward. Xander might have been a little slow on the uptake but he was pretty sure they didn’t intend to share cigars with da Ponte’s new sire. “Spike!” he croaked in warning.

Spike leapt to his feet—more nimbly now. The blood was healing him already. As the demons came closer, he rushed forward and scooped Xander into his arms. And then he ran for one of the big windows.

“Sun!” Xander said—or tried to say—but Spike paid little attention.

“Canal’s below, I reckon,” he said.

He was smoking before he even reached the glass.

Xander clutched his lover tightly, as if his body could somehow shield Spike’s from the light. But he couldn’t of course, and Xander felt his own skin charring where it touched Spike’s, heard himself and Spike screaming. 

The shards of glass barely registered.

For a brief moment, a tiny fraction of a second, they were flying.

And then they were falling, the canal seeming tiny below, and Spike’s face was blackened and skull-like, flames shooting from his hair.

“No!” someone yelled.

And then they truly were flying, the two of them swooped upward in a sickening movement, then thrust back through the broken window to tumble onto the floor. Xander dragged Spike out of the pool of sunlight but it was too late, far too late, and his beloved was turning to ash before his eyes.

Somewhere there were grunts and blood curdling shrieks. Xander barely noticed as he cradled Spike gingerly.

Someone came and tried to push him away. 

“No!” Xander screamed. “You can’t fucking have him!”

“Xander! Please! Let me feed him! Please!”

Dimly, Xander recognized the voice. Caron. It was Caron, their very own angel, who was trying to get at Spike. Caron who now sported a pair of enormous wings, covered in black and white feathers. 

Caron bit his own wrist—very much like Spike had done a few minutes earlier, only messier—and shoved the wrist against Spike’s lipless mouth. 

Xander wanted to remind the angel that his blood would only finish Spike's immolation by burning him from the inside, but he found he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do much of anything except take one last, bleary look at the gory remains of several demons and a dead human. And then he passed out.

[Chapter Twenty Eight](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/294105.html)   


 

  



	29. Chapter 29

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : 28 of 28 **  
****Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001h9gtp/)  
---  
  
  
  


**Chapter Twenty Eight**

Aside from several days’ growth of beard, Xander’s face was as white as the pillowcase beneath his head, and his hair looked almost black. But his features were at peace, his body no longer felt like a furnace, and the terrible smell of sickness had left him. Spike reached over and smoothed an imaginary strand of hair away from his boy’s forehead.

“You should let him rest, Spike. He’ll heal faster.”

Spike looked up at Caron and frowned. “He shouldn’t be mending at all. He was dying. And me . . .” His mouth still tasted of ashes.

Caron sat gently on the edge of the bed, clearly trying not to jostle either of them. “I’m sorry, Spike.”

“Sorry for what?”

“That I didn’t get there faster. I knew almost where you were, but not quite.” Caron looked down at his lap unhappily. “I was almost too late,” he whispered.

Spike couldn’t help himself. He reached up and stroked the soft feathers on Caron’s folded wings. Some of the feathers were snow white and some coal black, and the resulting mottled appearance was pleasing to the eye. Caron shuddered a little and leaned in to Spike’s touch.

“I still don’t understand what happened,” Spike said. “How did you find us at all? And the wings . . . ?”

The angel was worrying at his own folded hands. “You were gone and . . . and I knew something was wrong. I went out into the city to find you but I couldn’t. It’s such a very big place.”

Spike wondered silently what Caron would make of a real metropolis like London or New York. “But you did find us,” he prompted.

“I came back home and eventually fell asleep. And I dreamed of flying. It had been so long, I’d forgotten what it felt like. It was wonderful. I felt so light. Instead of stone, I became a feather. And when I woke up I was thinking of feathers and I remembered the one that Signora Bennu gave me. Do you remember?”

Spike nodded. “She gave Xander and me one as well.”

“Yes! I went to fetch mine, you see, and as soon as I held it I could see some buildings—like a picture in my head, but very clear—and I knew Xander was in one of them. It was . . . Xander’s feather, it was calling to mine.”

“Would have been handy if the signora had let on that her feathers could do that,” Spike muttered sourly. He stroked Xander’s face again, pushing away the thought of how close his boy had come to death.

“Maybe she didn’t know. Anyway, I went back out and I wandered until I found the right neighborhood. But there were so many buildings, so many houses, and I didn’t know which one. I tried knocking on doors but nobody could help.”

They both watched Xander as he stirred a bit, and when he was still again, they noted that he had moved unconsciously closer to them.

“I finally came back here,” Caron continued. “And I was thinking about whether there was some way to go and find your friends—”

“You’d have been hopelessly lost.”

“But I had to try! And my back began to itch. A lot. And then— Spike, my wings. I had my wings again. Maybe you and Xander, as hurt as you were, you were thinking kindly of me?”

“Every time a bell rings,” Spike said, causing Caron to look confused. “Never mind. Yes, of course we were. We were worried about you.”

“You love me,” Caron replied, as if there was no room for doubt on the matter. And really, there wasn’t. Spike did love him. Not the same as he did Xander, of course, more like he might love a brother or a son. Spike was fairly certain that Xander felt the same way, which made the three of them the world’s oddest little family.

“We love you,” confirmed Spike. 

Caron beamed. “So this time I flew—so much faster!—and I could look in the windows, if they didn’t have curtains. I was so close, Spike, so close and I couldn’t quite reach you.”

“Erm . . . didn’t people notice you, flapping about?”

Caron shrugged. “I don’t know. It wasn’t important. _You_ , you were important. And then I heard you screaming, and it was awful. I saw you, burning, heading right for that window. You were going to die!”

“Had no choice. Xan and I were done for if we stayed and I wasn’t strong enough to fight those demons alone. They would have caught me if I’d tried for the door. I reckoned—the canal was below. Perhaps my body would break the fall for Xander’s, and the water would be deep enough for him to survive.”

“You were on fire,” Caron said gravely.

“Yeah. It’s a bloody habit by now.” He tilted his head a bit. “You caught us, didn’t you? Like a flaming ball.”

“I caught you. Threw you back inside, because the _sun_ , Spike, and your skin was peeling and . . .  and it was terrible.”

“Didn’t enjoy it much myself.” Spike realized that his right hand was playing with Xander’s shaggy hair while his left was tracing the spines of Caron’s feathers. Both movements soothed him and he didn’t stop. “What did you do after you tossed us back inside? I don’t recall that bit very well. Everything was a bit fuzzy.”

The angel’s answer was simple. “I killed those demons.”

Spike blinked at him. “You . . . what?”

“They hurt you and Xander. They would have destroyed you. I had to stop them. So I killed them.”

“With what?”

Caron looked as if he didn’t quite understand the question. “My hands.”

Spike drew in a deep breath and let it out. He tried to imagine the strength it must have taken to defeat those four demons, any one of which would have been a true challenge for Spike even had he been in top form. Four of them, and bare-handed. After having just played baseball with a fiery vampire and dying human. But Spike wasn’t as surprised as he might have been. Caron might have an air of vulnerability that made those around him want to care for him, to wrap him in cotton wool and keep him safe. But underneath it all was a solid core of power. After all, Caron was no mere demon—he was an angel.

An angel who had murdered, Spike realized, and groaned. How deeply had he corrupted this wonderful creature?

“What is it?” asked Caron. “Are you in pain?”

Only the psychic kind, Spike answered silently. “You shouldn’t have done that. Killed, I mean.”

“It was the only way I could rescue you and Xander!”

“Then . . . you should have let us die. Caron, I’ve killed things, even since the soul. Xander’s killed as well, when he had to. Sometimes it’s the only way to prevent something much worse. My conscience can accept that. But that’s for us. Demons and humans. Not . . . not someone like you.”

“Like me?”

Spike sighed. “An angel, mate. Angels aren’t meant to murder. You’re . . . you’re meant to be good, yeah?”

Caron chewed at his lip as he considered his answer. Then his face cleared. “I don’t think it’s the . . . the title that matters. Demon, angel, human. Just categories. Humans can be wonderful and kind like Xander, or cruel like il ministro. Demons can hurt others—or they can love, they can be willing to die in order to save someone else. And angels . . . I wouldn’t be welcome anymore in the place where I came from. As far as my people are concerned, I was tainted as soon as humans touched me. But that’s okay. I like it here, Spike. And while I’m here, I’ll do what I think is right, not what I think an angel ought to do. Killing them didn’t make me happy, but it was the right thing to do.”

Spike didn’t have the energy to argue. In any case, who was he to debate morality with a celestial being? More irony, he expected, and not worth the effort. The deed was done, and it wasn’t Spike’s place to judge.

He turned to more prosaic matters. “What about da Ponte? What did you do with him?”

“Was he the human? I just left him there. He was already dead.”

“Not for long.” Spike shook his head. “I turned the bastard. He’ll be rising as a vampire in  . . . How long has it been?”

“A day and a half. I’m sorry! I didn’t know! I would have—”

“Not your fault. And he won’t rise for another day at least. I’ll sort him before that.” Spike started to rise from the mattress and then thought better of it as a wave of crushing weakness washed over him. Most of his burns and bruises had faded, but he was still a long way from cured. He’d need more time for that. And more blood.

And it was this last thought that made him grab Caron’s arm. “Wait!”

“You can’t go after him now, Spike. You’re—”

“I know. But I’ve just . . . When you tossed us back into da Ponte’s flat I was dusting. I know—I’ve felt it before. Little bits of myself withering away, falling. I would have been nothing but ashes by the time you carried me back here.”

Caron nodded. “Yes. I fed you before we left. It was enough to keep you going.”

“Fed me what? Xander wasn’t in any shape to donate platelets, da Ponte was drained, and I couldn’t stomach those demons of his. I don’t reckon il ministro kept much A-Positive in stock.”

“I gave you my blood,” Caron responded.

“Yours! But yours _burns_ me. Doesn’t mend me.”

Caron stood and shrugged. “This time it worked. It had to.” He glanced at Xander, who was looking a bit more lively. “You should rest. I’ll go heat you some blood, and maybe we can get Xander to swallow a little soup. He needs to eat.”

“Yeah, all right,” Spike answered absently.

Caron left the room—his wings barely fitting through the narrow doorway—and Spike closed the few inches between himself and Xander. Caron must have cleaned them both up at some point, because they were free of their ruined clothing, accumulated body fluids, and filth. The bandages on Xander’s hand were gone as well. Spike picked up the hand and inspected it before placing a soft kiss on the stub where the thumb had been.

Xander sighed and rolled over slightly, pressing himself tightly against Spike. His skin was exactly as warm as it was meant to be, his beard stubble was pleasantly scratchy, and he smelled every bit as wonderful as Caron ever did.

***

Caron fetched da Ponte’s body before the bugger rose. Spike didn’t worry himself about what the tourists and citizens of Venice thought if they had happened to catch sight of a beautiful angel flying overhead with an ugly corpse in his arms. When Caron arrived back at the flat, he deposited the body on the bedroom floor, where all three of them stared at it distastefully. Xander had woken just a short time before and was still too weak to do more than sit, propped by pillows, but his color was returning and his eyes held life again.

“What are you gonna do with him?” he asked Spike.

“Dunno.” Spike sighed. “Only turned him to buy us a few more minutes.”

“Well, that worked okay. But we can’t let him just run around. If he was that awful before the demon . . .” Xander shivered slightly, and Spike tucked the covers higher around him, even though he knew his boy wasn’t cold.

“I can just stake him now and be done with it. Or tear his bloody head off.”

“But that’ll leave us with a body, won’t it? A human body’s hard to get rid of.”

“Tell me about it,” Spike said. “I’ve dumped more corpses— Well, best not to pursue that line, I expect.”

Xander patted Spike reassuringly. “I know what you used to be, Spike. And I know what you are now.”

Spike smiled at the reminder that his boy truly loved him, baggage and all. “But this still leaves us with a problem.” He kicked slightly at the body, as if that might make it go away.

“Can you wait until he rises and then stake him? We used to do that on patrol all the time. Well, mostly Buffy. Vamps hardly knew what hit them—just an escape from the grave and then _poof_ they’re gone.”

“Might do,” Spike responded thoughtfully. “Only, that’s easy, innit? Too easy after what he did to you.”

“And you. Not to mention Signora Bennu and Signor Recciutti and the other people he terrorized or allowed his minions to murder.”

“Yeah. But I don’t fancy torturing him, much as he deserves it. Never really had much of a taste for torture, even when I was evil, and now . . .”

Xander nodded. “Right. No torture.” 

They were silent for a time, all three of them lost in thought. And then Xander’s face lit up. “Hey! I know!”

Spike collapsed onto the mattress beside him. “Do tell.”

“It’s not exactly torture, but . . . but I bet the Slayers might like having a vamp to practice on. One they wouldn’t mind hurting, I mean. And Giles would probably want to study him.”

Spike spent a moment considering the idea. Based on the hints of darkness Rupert had let Spike see now and then, Spike had the idea that his “study” of da Ponte might end up being a good deal more like torture than Xander suspected. The concept did not bother Spike’s soul. “Yeah, all right. Maybe this bastard will keep them busy so they’ll leave our Caron alone.”

And with that decided, Xander had a long phone discussion that Spike chose not to listen to. Instead, he sat with Caron in the living room, watching telenovelas. Finally, Xander called him back in.

“It’s settled,” Xander said happily. “They’ll come for him tomorrow.”

Spike wasn’t as happy about it as he might have been. “And you? You’ll go back with them?”

Xander caught Spike’s hand. “If you want to. No reason to stay here anymore. But I’m not going anywhere without you.” A hint of uncertainty crossed his face. “Unless you don’t want—”

“Git. Just nearly went up in flames again for you. Of _course_ I want.”

Xander smiled as beautifully as Caron and tugged Spike onto the bed. “Good. Really, really good.” He gave Spike a messy smooch on the cheek.

“You’re in no condition for a shag,” Spike pointed out.

“Sadly, no. But that doesn’t mean there can’t be cuddling. And maybe a little petting and snuggling.”

“Git,” Spike repeated fondly, and begin pulling off his kit.

When they were in bed together and Caron had joined them as well—da Ponte was trussed up securely and gagged and stuffed in a cupboard—Xander sighed happily. “This is nice. I’m glad . . . Well, I’m just glad, is all. Thank you, Caron.”

“We saved each other,” Caron said. “And I have friends who love me.”

Spike was in the middle, sandwiched in their warmth, which made him drowsy. But he expressed something that had been bothering him since Caron had told him the details of the rescue. “Still don’t understand why the angel’s blood didn’t burn. I _know_ it did last time. Didn’t imagine it.”

“Duh,” said Xander, bonking him lightly on the head. 

“Duh?”

“Yeah, duh, Captain Oblivious. Caron’s blood burned you back them because you were evil. Well, mostly. But evil enough.” He kissed Spike’s cheek as if to apologize for the accusation.

“Yeah, still a demon, love.”

“Still a demon, but now not evil. It’s like . . . bad guys have an allergy to angel blood, maybe. But you, now you’re officially a white hat. Allergy cured.”

“You mean you reckon I’ve been redeemed?” It wasn’t a notion that Spike had dared entertain before.

“How do I know?” Xander said. 

“I’m not a real boy, not like Liam.”

“Good, ’cause then you couldn’t bite me so nicely. Look, here’s what I figure. Angel gets redeemed and becomes human. You get redeemed and end up with a human and an angel. Same deal, more or less, right?”

Spike thought about that. Then he kissed Xander back and petted Caron’s feathers. “Better, pet. I ended up with the much better deal.”

[Epilogue](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/294243.html)   



	30. Chapter 30

**Title** : L’Angelo della Città  
 **Chapter** : **Epilogue  
** **Pairing:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander and Spike go to Venice to investigate a problem. They discover much more than they had expected.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete. It has 28 chapters plus prologue and epilogue and I will post daily. Huge thanks to the hard-working   for the excellent beta work, and to the generous   for the lovely icons and banners! Also thanks to   for vetting my Italian. Feedback is always cherished.

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=L%27Angelo%20della%20Citta&filter=all)   
**  
Thank you all for reading! I always appreciate feedback. :-)**

  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001haddf/)  
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**Epilogue**

[Author's note: I've also posted Chapter 28 this morning. Make sure you read that first!]

_London, England, 2011_

“Are you sure you won’t get lost? Or too tired? ’Cause California’s a really long way from here and—”

“I’ll be fine.” Caron smiled serenely down at Xander. He was naked—flying in pants felt too restrictive, he claimed—and he was magnificent, with his huge wings spread and his long hair tied in a neat ponytail to keep it out of his face. The glass wing Xander had given him hung from his neck. No doubt several Slayers had found ways to peek up at the roof of HQ to spy on Caron; most of them had been mooning over him since he'd arrived.

Caron patted the device strapped to his arm. “I’ve been practicing with the GPS and I’m really good at it now. I know the coordinates for the Sanctuary. I’m going to take the polar route, I think. And we know the cloaking spell Mr. Giles gave me works fine—I’ve been flying over London for months now and nobody has noticed.”

“I know,” Xander said with a sigh. “And I know you’re super-strong and all. It’s just . . .  it’s a long way, like I said. Things can go wrong.”

“Have faith, Xander. I’ll be fine.”

Xander couldn’t argue with that, so he simply hugged his angel one more time. “Maybe at the Sanctuary—  I hope you find your partner soon, Caron. You deserve someone special just for you.”

“Maybe. But it’s okay. I think before I can love someone like you and Spike do, I need to learn more about myself. See what I can do, who I am. See what my place is here on earth.”

Xander nodded his agreement. He’d had to do a good bit of growing up himself before he was ready for real love. He stepped back so Spike could say goodbye. Xander smiled at the way Spike buried his nose in Caron’s skin. His vampire never could get enough of Caron’s yummy smell.

When Spike finally pulled out of the embrace, Caron stepped back a little, gave them his trademark blinding smile, and leapt into the air, his wings flapping. Giles said someone Caron’s size couldn’t possibly become airborne, not even with such big wings, but then that was magic for you: achieving the impossible.

Caron circled the roof twice, waving down at them, and they waved back. Then Giles’ spell kicked in and he disappeared.

Spike and Xander remained on the roof, looking up at the rare sight of stars over London. They each had an arm around the other’s waist.

“Looks like we’re empty nesters now,” Spike said.

“Yep. Our little angel has flown the coop.”

Spike nuzzled at Xander’s neck. “’S good. Don’t mind sharing the bed with him now and then, but it’ll be lovely to have you all to myself.”

Xander’s cock—which hadn’t exactly been underused lately—twitched in agreement, and at the husky rasp of Spike’s voice. “I think the Sanctuary will be a good place for him. He’ll learn a lot, I think, and his language skills will come in handy. He can certainly help Willow keep the peace there.”

“Yeah, and the little hellions here will go back to their old squabbling ways, I expect. It’s been so quiet with his influence.”

“Yeah. You’ve even been getting along with Buffy and Giles.”

Spike snorted and then, without much warning, swept Xander’s feet out from under him so they landed together on the rooftop, which was still warm from the sun. They rolled around for a few moments until Spike managed to pin Xander on his back, with Spike sitting astride his hips. Not a bad way to be pinned, as those things went, Xander reflected.

“About Caron’s influence,” Xander said a little nervously.

Spike raised his chin. “Still afraid we’ll remember we hated one another, are you. Well, I won’t. Don’t care how many sodding angels are or are not in the neighborhood—I love you.” His jaw worked a bit. “And you?”

“You’re stuck with me for good, bleachboy.”

Spike grinned and bent down to kiss along Xander’s jawline. His glass devil bumped against Xander’s neck. “Lovely,” Spike said.

It was lovely. Xander and Spike still bickered, but only because it was fun. And although the sex was spectacular—and the biting, oh the biting!—there were other aspects Xander enjoyed even more. Like the way Spike would fall asleep draped over Xander’s torso, and Xander would wake up with that comforting weight atop him, and a little puddle of drool on his chest under Spike’s mouth. Or the way Spike smiled at him sometimes when they were watching TV or hanging out or wandering around the streets of London. A radiant smile as if Spike had discovered a treasure; nobody had ever looked at Xander like that before. Xander even liked the poems Spike wrote just for him, and which Xander swore never, ever to share with anyone else. 

But Xander pushed him away. “Um . . . there is one thing you should know, though.”

“What?” Spike said, trying and failing to hide his fear.

“I had a little chat with Giles and some of his cronies the other day. You know, when they were taking a break from whatever the hell they’ve been doing to da Ponte.” Da Ponte was locked up somewhere in the bowels of HQ, and Xander was well aware that the new vampire was not having the time of his unlife as a test specimen for Watchers. Xander wasn’t exactly happy that the bastard was suffering, but he wasn’t exactly sorry either.

“What kind of a chat?”

“They’ve been doing a little work on Caron’s healing powers, trying to figure out what makes them tick. He doesn’t seem to be able to do it for just anyone, you know. Just for people he really cares about. Which is kinda too bad, but it also saves him from being stuck forever playing miracle curer to the masses.”

Spike still looked wary. “And?”

“And . . . they think maybe he did a better job with me than we expected. Not that the new thumb isn’t nifty and all.” And to demonstrate, Xander ran his newly regrown thumb across the fabric that was stretched over Spike’s nipples. But Spike caught at his hand.

“Stop teasing, love. Out with it.”

“I should have died back in da Ponte’s cell, probably before you even showed up. I know concussions and that one was a doozy. But I didn’t die, and Giles thinks it’s because Caron gave me some . . . immunity, I guess. And some of Giles’ lab-rat pals took a look at my cells—blood and stuff—and, um, they’re weird.”

“We know you’re weird, but I love you anyway.”

Xander smiled. “I know. But this is extra weirdness. New weirdness. What with the healing shots Caron’s given me and the time I’ve spent close to him, I’m not . . .  well, I’m not dying. I mean, all humans are dying, from the moment we’re conceived, right? Body parts age and break down, and eventually we can’t replace them very well.”

“’M going to kill you myself if you don’t spit it out, pet,” said Spike with a growl.

“I’m not aging. Don’t know if I’m immortal or anything—maybe I’m just getting old really slowly. But it seems I’m destined to be stuck a while in early middle age. And I heal well, too. Haven’t you noticed? Your bite marks disappear by morning.”

Spike gaped at him as the meaning of Xander’s words sunk in. “So you . . . you . . .”

“Like I said. You’re stuck with me for good. Or, well, at least for an unbelievably long time.”

Spike laughed so loudly that the sound of it echoed among the buildings. Xander imagined that maybe even Caron could hear it and would know that Spike and Xander were happy, that they were thinking of him. That would be a nice way to start a long journey, he figured.

And speaking of long journeys . . . Xander grabbed Spike around the middle, rolled them over again, and clambered off. “C’mon. Let’s go to bed.”

Spike waggled his eyebrows. “Eager, are we?”

“Always. But in this case I need my rest, too. As soon as it’s dark tomorrow we need to start heading to Venice. Train, car . . . it’s gonna take a while. Plus we’re behind in our Italian lessons. Rosetta Stone says we should be much farther along.” He stood and stretched, and when Spike seemed tempted to remain on the roof, Xander offered him a hand. “C’mon, Fang. How often do you get to shag the soon-to-be Ministro dei Demoni?”

“Every day,” Spike said, taking the offered hand and rising to his feet. “Sometimes twice.”

“Well, it’s important for the minister to maintain close relations with demons, isn’t it?” Xander said with a grin.

“Wonder how you say ‘git’ in Italian?” Spike mused out loud as they made their way to the stairwell. But before they descended, they both paused once more to look up at the sky, where light sparkled in the dark.

“Race you to bed,” Xander said. “Winner gets to top.” And they flew down the stairs two at a time, laughing and jostling each other playfully, knowing that no matter what, they had both already won.

_~~~fin~~~_

(finished at 36000 feet in the air, somewhere over Davis Strait, just off the coast of Greenland)

 

 

 

  



End file.
